


a Valiant Remedy

by Tafferling



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Original Work, Resident Evil
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Budding Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fast Cars, Fear of Death, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Hurts So Good, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Post Traumatic Healing, Redfieldium, Road Trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-06-05 11:00:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 47
Words: 207,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6702100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tafferling/pseuds/Tafferling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the 6 months in which Chris Redfield lost himself to drink and grief, and what would have happened if he’d run into someone just as lost as him.</p><p>On the 24th of December 2012, Chris Redfield lost more than his men to the trickery of Neo Umbrella. Driven to the brink by grief and guilt, his memories shattered and broken, he abandons his post and everything he’s ever fought to uphold.</p><p>* * *</p><p>The Marked Wasting is a Sare’s most terrifying end. It doesn’t discriminate between grown man and child, gentle gifted Quirk or Keeper. No healer can lift it. No medicine cure it. And while it may take years to take you there, at the end there always lies death.</p><p>Sinvik Shielding is at a loss as the Wasting threatens to consume her fledgling Keeper: Sadja. She thinks it unfair that after all the battles they’ve fought together, the ones they’ve won and the ones they’ve lost, this one doesn’t even give them the benefit of a chance and leaves them helpless.</p><p>Fresh out of ideas, Sinvik decides to turn to the Cataract, to plead for it to bring her Fledgling hope. Or to at least grant her a peaceful end, away from strife and danger. Away from their shared burden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1, How to Kill a Keeper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of an odd one, I understand. A cross over between an original novel I have been working on, and Resident Evil. It was meant to help me get a better understanding of my world and characters and has been incredibly helpful in that. 
> 
> It's also been a lot of fun to write, so I decided to re-write it, shuffle the characters around a little bit, remove the spoilers to my own work, and here it is.
> 
> I hope someone, somewhere, enjoys it :) If you do, why not leave a comment?
> 
>  **Resident Evil timelines and locations:** I'd written half of this on a whim, and without doing much research in locations and timelines. This has caused **Edonia** to have changed from being an Eastern European country like Serbia, to a butchered version of Estonia on our current map. Much larger, but otherwise still in the same place. I understand that this is not correct, but I didn't want to rewrite a good 50k words of content by the time I figured out the truth. 
> 
> Head [this way if you need a Glossary of terms](https://drive.google.com/open?id=1F0tx6GsjIePL37v4384VCQrhQW0u0AiP5MBElDHif4E) and don't want to be drip fed information about Sadja and her world.
> 
>  
> 
> _The First Person narration is a short introduction. The rest of the story will be told from the Third Person POV of Sadja, Chris and Piers._
> 
>  _Cover by the amazing **[Del Borovic](http://delborovic.tumblr.com/)**_.

 

* * *

>    **A peek into a later chapter:**   **C** hris wiped at the fogged up mirror. The dour face looking back at him showed very little improvement to before. His right eye was bloodshot, and a recently stitched together gash along his left temple and forehead had taken on an angry red tinge. He tapped gingerly at it. It stung right back.
> 
> _'Doesn’t help not remembering where I got that either…_ ' Or why he could hardly set his right leg down, or why his chest and left side were covered in blues and greens and why he had another gash the length of his palm stitched just below his right shoulder. Plus, not to forget the cut on his lower left leg. That one had been bleeding. His hand dropped to his jaw. At least the dirty vagrant’s beard was gone.
> 
> _'That ought to count for something… Can’t do much about the rest.'_
> 
> His head had stopped pounding too, and a long while spent under the hot water had rinsed off more than grime and dust. It had cleared some of the haze from his mind too, leaving him to remember bits and pieces of yesterday and the day before.
> 
> Most of those he’d spent wandering. He remembered a train and the confines of a carriage cart. Then walking, so much walking, until the city swallowed him. Though a lot of it he’d simple forgotten. Important things. Little things. Irrelevant details. Didn’t matter what it was, forgetting seemed to have become somewhat of a trend, one he’d found maddeningly difficult to shake.
> 
> There was, however, the overly curious set of light brown eyes, and the melodic accented voice badgering him while he tried to stay ahead of his fatigue. What still eluded him quite persistently though was how he’d gotten _here_.
> 
> _'More walking, I’ll bet.'_
> 
> The _why_ was a more pressing concern anyway. Though for the most part… Chris picked up the black cotton sweater. It looked clean. Smelled clean. New, even. A much better alternative to his old one.
> 
> Yeah. For the most part things could probably be worse. He dragged the sweater over his head, ran a hand through his hair, and decided to go fill in some blanks.

* * *

## A Valiant Remedy

**(or: The Knight who said “What?”)**

**Part 1: How to kill a Keeper**

 

**TENACITY**

* * *

 

“Shot,” Sadja tells me, matter-of-factly. “Or maybe stabbed.”

Her tongue clicks and she hums, shuffles her feet against the bare rock we stand on, a restless twitch to the lot of her that travels from her tense shoulders to her shifting heels.  

“Beheading,” she continues, “Crushed by a gigantic boulder of sorts.”

I arch a brow at her, catch her bob her head in a curt imitation of a thoughtful nod. The tip of her tongue darts to taste her lips and she flinches, as if she’s set her mind to imagine herself being rolled over by a big, fat rock. A droll enough picture. If not for _today_ — for her lips curling downwards, betraying a frown. My heart gives a squeeze, and I can’t imagine Sadja to have ever thought about her death much, not until it stands before her at any rate, arms spread wide and asking for that one last sweet embrace. And now? Now it's all she thinks about, and she’s being awfully chatty about it.  

“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I always thought you’d get yourself strangled. You can be a cheeky little cunt.”

She smiles at that. Briefly, like she often does.

Ah. I forgot. Allow me to introduce myself before we go any further.  Keeper Sinvik Shielding, at your service. Or rather not, if it’s all the same to you. The girl standing with me, the one shooting me a glare while her light brown eyes beg me to save her, her name is Sadja.

Save her.

Ha.

We both know this--this whole venture of looking for a way out--is nothing more than a last, desperate effort grasping at the coattail of hope. I wish from the bottom of my heart, wherever that might be hiding at this point, that there’s something I can do. Right here. Right now. Fix her. Cure her. Rip the sickness from her.

But I can’t. I’m left to watch her small, pale form as she fights The Fates tooth and nail, losing the battle with every beat of her heart. Can’t offer her much, either. So, I put on a reassuring smile and I am abysmal with reassuring gestures, do believe me. It’s a Shielding thing. We’re not altogether good at these sorts of things, but we’ve got a knack for making the world around us miserable, not to forget each other. Point in case standing here, rambling about how she’d have _liked_ to die.

“I would have made a fabulous torch, getting burnt to cinders, and drowning wouldn’t have been too bad either.” Her head cocks back and she draws in a breath, winds herself up, and the words keep coming… _blown from an airlock_ — _run over by a horse_ — _tumbling down a mountain_ — _eaten alive by a Reaper._

Let’s let her ramble for a while, Reader. Back to the introduction. I’m _Sare_. Marked. And so is she. We share a lot more than that: we share our gifts, we share our curses, everything but the _Marked Wasting_ slowly eating away at her.

You’re not familiar with that, are you? It’s good that you’re not, since it’s a terrible way to go and I wouldn't wish it upon you. She's got nothing good waiting for her at the end of it, after the sickness is done gnawing through her one bite at a time. It’ll go for her eyesight first. It always does. Then her hearing. Her sense of balance. Her sense of being. Then it turns inwards, until not even the beast chained to her heart can keep her alive any more and withers alongside her.

What beast you ask? Don’t be impatient. We’ll get to that later. Maybe.

The Wasting is our worst nightmare. A Sare’s worst possible end. It comes quick when it takes hold, seats itself against your soul, and it _rots_. No one’s found a way to cure it. To hold it at bay. All there ever is is wait— at times a long wait, with Sare living for years before it finally decides to take them. They are terrible years, years spent blind and deaf or halfway there. But all die, succumb to a slow and particularly _dull_ death.

I leave her be as Sadja falls silent, don’t impose myself on her, and she turns her chin down to take great interest in the tips of her boots.

We haven’t even said goodbye yet.

We won’t.

I look up at the Cataract pouring through the air in front of us. It holds a smooth, silver colour, its surface a sheet of brilliant light. I’d love to tell you more about it, but I think you’d find the technicalities a little bit boring. So let’s keep this short and simple: Your reality is a finicky thing. It may be all you know, but it is not all there is. Truth be told, no one knows just how many there are. I certainly don’t, and I’ve been a Keeper for close to sixty years. We Keepers— or at times, we _Arec’tel T'Echo_ if you want to be all proper about it _—_ we serve the Cataract _,_ a thing we do not understand. It allows us passage into worlds that are not ours. There we carry out its bidding, fix a tear here and there, fetch something that bled through and then return, leaving a world that needed us to continue doing its thing.

Never do we interfere. Never do we ask for favours. In all my years serving that bloody thing, I never once asked for anything.

Except today.  Today I do, because that fledging Keeper by my side? That girl with the weight of Markings that had torn her down for more than thirty years? I don’t want her to die. I _can’t_ have her die. It’s not how this is supposed to play out. She deserves better, we both do, but where I’ve got no choice, she _does_.

“Ready?” My eye scut to her.

“Mh—” Another curt nod.

I know she’s lying, no one is ready for this, but this tiny lie will do. A shaky breath later, and a whole lot of shame since I’m the one showing more wear and tear around the edges of my soul than she does, and I stare at the Cataract in all its infuriating indifference.

Not a bloody twitch on it…

The Cataract will, whenever it deems fit, bare a lock for us. It is a lock that anyone can feel if they’re close enough, an emotion forced on you. A guide. And a Keeper, such as we are, we’ll be able to provide the matching key.

First I go in search of the lock, place my hand against the liquid light, and quest for a hint of unbidden emotion. Much to my surprise, and relief, Sadja is the first to draw a sharp breath. Startled. Confused. _Hurt_. Tears well in her eyes and she makes an effort to blink them away, then tucks her shoulder up to rub at her face. It takes another heartbeat for the ripple of regret to sink its ugly fangs into me, work its way to my core, and I feel what she feels.

_Guilt._

A good a lock as any, I think and watch Sadja set her spine straight and move towards me, lifting a gloved hand to place it gently against the wavering sheet of light next to mine. Her tender touch stirs the surface, and I feel my heart stall. It doesn’t need me. It wants her. A good sign, maybe. Or just another cruel play of fate.

Liquid dust separates from the smooth surface. The particles glint silver as they tease the tips of her fingers and dance around her wrist. The Cataract has gotten cold to the touch. Very cold. It chills the air around it, and our breath escapes in misty puffs.

“You’re not dressed for that.”

She’s not, and I glance at her short sleeved, fitted shirt dyed a bright red. The light fabric is made for the damp hot weather of the _Southern Gates,_ leaves her shoulders exposed to the elements, and doesn’t lend itself for down North. Or up North. Or wherever North might be where she’s headed. Her thin soled boots aren’t much better. They’re soft and quiet, but lack wool lining. I pity her toes already. And the simple pair of dark brown slacks with their pockets (which she’s currently digging her hands into) aren’t going to keep her warm either.

But there won’t be time for a change of clothes, we know that. She’ll just have to make due, and I’ve got no doubt she’ll manage. I’ve taught her well after all (Oh come on, don’t look at me like that, I’m allowed to be proud sometimes).

Sadja pulls a thin, leather-bound journal from a thigh pocket. It’s held shut with a leather strap wrapped around it, and a pencil is tucked into the side. She unwinds the strap quickly, opens to a blank page, and begins writing whilst stood in front of the Cataract.

With the lock bared, all she’s got left to do is find the bloody key.

So my fledgling Keeper writes.

She lets the lingering grief and guilt drive the words from her. Familiar words, painful words. The names of those that stand (or stood) closest to her regrets are the hardest, I guess. But she keeps going, even if she sometimes pauses to rub at stinging, glistening eyes. One page. One page and a half. Soon her thoughts turn to a different loss; the loss of her own life as the Wasting eats at it. The loss of things she would never live to see. Never live to have.

Three pages.

And as her words turn to those of goodbye, they trail off. Become one. Repeat. She jots it down five times before she stops.

 **_Tenacity_** , I read as her fingers cramp around the pencil.

 _Tenacity._ A promising word, in theory. You can’t argue that a certain stick-to-it-iveness is a good thing to have. Though of course it’s another riddle, much like any other key. The Cataract might be telling her about a determined medica of sorts, chomping at the bit to lift the Wasting off her, just as much as it might be hinting at the unwavering determination of the sickness itself.

No matter. Only one way to find out.

Pencil and journal are wrapped tightly once more and promptly slide back into their pocket. There’s no need to say the word out loud. To hold it in her mind is sufficient. Though she’s a little like me, and we both thought that it made for better theatrics if you murmur it to yourself as you step from your slice of reality into someone else’s.

I let my hand fall away from the bitter cold and place it gently against her elbow.

“Good luck,” I tell her while I work my _barr_ off my neck. The scarf is old. Scratchy. Valuable. She looks at it, furrows her brows at the treasure I offer up to her as I drape it loosely around her neck, not tying the binding just yet.

“Try to come back,” I add, and place a gentle kiss against the top of her head before pushing her forward.

The Cataract’s silver glow winks out. A dirty rust colour replaces it, shifting and rippling lividly around Sadja. It shudders. The quiver lifts more liquid dust from its roiling surface, sends it whirling like her own private snowstorm made of rust and sooty black flakes. It wraps around her hands, flits between her legs, nestles itself into her neck. Icy cold, and ready to grant her entry and to welcome her in.

The key fit.

And just like that she’s gone.

* * *

 **I** t was cold first.

_Who would have thought?_

Second, it was _really_ cold.

Sadja tripped ahead, disoriented by her passage through the nothing that was the slithering, liquid void beyond. You didn’t easily get used to how it carried you, pulled along by a momentum that wasn’t really there. Like you were being yanked forwards and backwards at the same time—and all of it into every direction you hadn't even known your body could move. And yet you were kept tightly rooted too, not budging a centimeter.

It sucked.

Sadja tried to stop herself from being swept along with the momentum that was, and yet wasn’t, but her success was marginal at best. Didn’t help that she couldn’t see a thing to boot. Bright daylight had blinded her the moment she’d waltzed through with her eyes wide open. So, she ducked her head, tucked her shoulders in, and wished for the best as she tottered on until her outstretched hands found a solid surface. Which was, incidentally, cold too.

She followed the _Wall?_ with eyes squeezed shut until she found an opening. Inside she went, and once gloom settled she gave the whole looking thing another try.

_Better._

A dim corridor spread in front of her. Plaster walls. Plain. Dirty. Another step, and she almost lost her footing as the ground wobbled and creaked. The door that should have covered the entryway she had come through lay at her feet, blown straight off its hinges.

“Terrific,” she muttered, and moved into the corridor. “Green grass. Rainbows. Fluffy white clouds.” The cold air stung against her bare arms. “Sunshine. White beaches. Coconuts. Why couldn’t you pop me in somewhere bonny?” Sadja wrapped her arms around herself and allowed her teeth a few quick chatters. She passed two more doors. They were still nicely tucked into their frames where they belonged, but the rest of the corridor had obviously seen better days. Depressed little bulbs shed dirty light around her. It wasn’t like the place was in disrepair, or weathered by years of neglect. The damage to the cracked, yellowed plaster was recent, violent. A row of bullet holes traced an irregular arch along the wall and ended halfway across the roof above her.

“Right,” Sadja sighed. “No gentle retreats for me. We’ll stick to disasters. So, what’s it this time?”

A shuffle. A creak. Just around the corner. Harsh breathing and the rustle of cloth.

 _ < Filthy. Dead. Gnawing. Rending. > _ The distressed beast coiled around her heart.  She could feel it too; something entirely _wrong_ was lurking just out of sight. Sadja stopped in her tracks, tilted her head, and allowed herself a tentative tug to the Verge. The response was… disheartening. No brush of familiarity and acceptance came to meet her. Instead, harsh whispers filled a murky, cold void. Chaos skulked at the edge of her awareness, all torn and broken and scared and filthy and…

Sadja wished she had feathers like Sai, so she could ruffle them, and rounded the corner.

A man sat slumped against the wall. A _human_ man. One head, two legs and two arms. He was dressed in a thick grey jacket and dark trousers, and his head was covered mostly by a wooly looking hat pulled over his ears. That, at least, was a good enough sign. Human she could do. Humans were humans, no matter where one looked. Though, this one didn’t seem to be doing too well.

His shoulders heaved with each breath and his lungs rattled as if they had been scrambled. Sadja sniffed the air. A pungent odour hit her; not-quite-death, but getting there. She crinkled her nose.

“Are you alright?”

She stepped gingerly around the man. A violent shudder jerked his chin up, allowing Sadja a brief look at his face. There was definitely something wrong about it.

“No. Got it. Need help?”

Another shudder. And then a lunge. His hands reached for her legs, distorted fingers stretching and clawing at the air where she’d just stood. Sadja weaved out of the way. The motion sent her head spinning. Too soon still after the transition…

< _Careful_ >

_No kidding._

He lunged again, gurgling (or growling, she couldn’t quite tell) with what might have been frustration.

“No hugs,” she chided, clicking her tongue.

He didn’t listen, but before he could grope for her again, Sadja kicked at him. Her booted foot connected with his chin, and his head snapped back. Sadja’s stomach turned with the quick movement, and she felt her balance waver. A hesitant step to the side gave him enough time to grab at her and tighten his fingers around her ankle. She caught herself against the wall, kicked at him again— and again—and again, but the vice like grasp didn’t loosen.. He started snapping at her, as if he wanted to take a chunk out of her leg.

“Crap!”

She was dragged from the wall and fell. He lunged up, teeth clicking greedily.

“Get—!” Sadja grabbed for his head and snatched a fistful of hair “—the fuck—“ A hard yank to the right. Knee up, driven right into his stomach. Once. Then twice.  “—off me!” He rolled over, finally, and Sadja broke from his grip to back away quick as her wobbly legs allowed. He followed. _Oh bugger. Bugger._ This was beginning to turn out entirely unpleasant. Even more so now that she’d gotten a good look at the ruined face. It was marred, bruised. Popped. If she hadn’t known better, she could have sworn he even had a second set of eyes. Putrid, bulging eyes.

When he went for her again, Sadja barely managed to weave past, but she _did_ manage to grab the side of his head and drive it into the wall. Like cracking an egg. A tough egg, but it cracked just fine. He slumped to the floor — and stayed there.

For a heartbeat, or maybe two, she watched him twitch and kick, a few quick spasms of his legs, before even those stopped and he lay still. Dead then. Good enough.

Least he wouldn’t need his jacket anymore.

She dragged it off his torso. The thing was sturdy, made of thick fabric lined with wool. Blood had soaked into the collar, matching the red badge that adorned the shoulders, but Sadja couldn’t care less even if she’d tried. It was warm and warm was good. Too bad she had to ruin the cozy looking hat though. It would have gone well with her cold ears.

The fledgling Keeper rolled the long sleeves up to her wrists, folded up the collar to cover her neck, and then hunkered down next to the dead man.

“I’m sorry. I really am. See, if it was up to me I wouldn’t be doing this. But it’s not. So water under the bridge and all that, right? Though—” She leaned across the body and peered at the ruined, slack-jawed face. Three eyes, wide open, bloodshot and swollen. Cracked, leaking skin. _Yuck._ “—I’ll be honest, I think I did you a favour. Now let’s see if you have anything else…”

She rifled through pockets and checked his belt. Nothing, except useless bibs and bobs.

“… guess not.”

Once back on her feet— _Ohwahow, not too fast, head spinning_ —Sadja allowed herself a moment to sort through her scattered thoughts.

The _Cataract_ was expected to bring her close to wherever she had to be. Admittedly, her first hand experience was limited to a whopping _twice_. So _close_ might be up for debate. Come to think of it, all the writings and records on the Keepers of old, pinpointing their charges with great accuracy might be generally full of shit too. She grimaced. Sinvik would have known, of course. She always did. Sort of. She’d have marched them right to their goal, and then right back by dinner time. Maybe this had been a bad idea. Maybe she should have locked herself away somewhere and waited it all out. Or antagonised a Reaper until it bit her head off.

Hindsight was a bitch.

Nothing to be done about that now though. Until the time was right she wouldn’t be allowed to leave - so she might as well make the best of it and see if the _Cataract_ had decided to grant her a boon like Sinvik had hoped it would.

She doubted it.

/// (Edit ongoing, Updated 27th Sep 16 - Sinvik introduction POV changed to 1st Person Present)


	2. The Girl of No-Mans-Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a plan goes sideways for Chris Redfield and Sadja kicks a puppy.

**THE GIRL OF NO-MAN’S-LAND**

* * *

**E** donia had gone to shit.

No jingles. No cheer. No Santa this 24th (likely KIA). Just a whole lot of snow, weighing heavy on shingled roofs, and the sharp smell of death and smoke in the frigid air.

The hint of charred wood in the mix flicked at a memory buried under years of neglect: of powdery white covering a front porch— snug woolen hats— and a squeal of delight as one young Redfield caught the other with a handful of snow. Chris didn’t remember which one had done the throwing. Him or Claire. Or if that had been the Christmas he’d gotten sent to his room because he’d beaten up the neighbour’s kid for knocking over his sister’s snowman. Shit holiday, that.

If only he’d known they’d only get shittier from there on out. Or turn into _this_. Maybe he wouldn’t have thrown a fit and vowed to join the armed forces the moment he’d turned old enough to sign a dotted line. Yeah. If only.

He discarded the memory, stopped thinking of wood burning in a hearth, and focused on the torn city falling away in front of him. His rifle clicked as he lowered it and tucked the stock against his shoulder.

“Piers,” Chris said, his voice low, and gave a quick, decisive jab down the road.

“Captain,” came Piers Nivan’s reply, and the sniper slipped past him to take up his position against the hood of their makeshift cover, a miserable rattle-trap of a car. One of many that had stayed abandoned after the battle lines had pushed through town, too quickly for the civilians to be evacuated. Piers propped the rifle against his cheek, adjusted the scope with nimble fingers, and levelled it into the direction his Captain had indicated. Chris followed suit by squinting through his spotting scope.

The main road sloped down the low hill: quiet and empty. Civilians had either fled, holed up indoors—or they lined the streets, dead and cold. Civil war was like that. Especially the ones backed by B.O.Ws

A bleak grey sky stood as a backdrop to the sturdy brick-walled buildings with their wooden fittings and shingled roofs. Dark clouds crept across the sky, promising snow.

Chris frowned. They didn’t need snow. Snow turned visibility to shit. Made air support impossible. Made his life harder. And he liked his life as it was: Inconvenient, but _doable_.

His eyes cut from the clouds to the mountains carrying the drab skies on their shoulders, thick forests skirting them below, and then back to business.

Yes, Edonia was a serene, bitter cold place in winter. Especially the more remote, rural areas nuzzled up against the borders. If not for the bodies his eyes caught on, one could have been lulled into thinking things were well enough. But they weren’t. Where there ought to have been jingles and bells and what the fuck not, they got sporadic gunfire echoing through narrow alleyways, joined occasionally by the louder boom of heavier ordnance.

An abundance of _right up shit creek_.

_Just another day at the office._

Chris snapped the scope towards the group of insurgents who'd dug themselves in fairly well at the bottom of the slope. They’d erected a barricade, one of many that hindered the B.S.A.A’s progress into the border town, and weren’t about to make Chris’ life any easier by just slinking off and letting them walk right past.

Most of them stood at the ready. Not loitering or lounging. No, they were ready. Waiting. Alert.

He counted seven visible in the open. All armed. Three at street level by the barricade. Two more idling in the building’s entryway and two on a balcony on the right flank. More could be (and knowing his luck or lack of such, _were_ ) holing up out of sight. It’d be tough to move past without drawing more from their nests and right onto their position.

Chris considered his options. Strike out left (tenant buildings, tight quarters— chances of getting boxed in). Circle right (small river, bridges probably watched, but frozen water— could cross if careful). He turned his wrist up, took a quick peek at _too little time_ staring back at him.

Eighteen minutes until rendezvous with the main body of the B.S.A.A troops moving in from the East.

His jaw set. Chris couldn’t risk another delay, even if he’d rather not engage a group this big with only his forward team. He didn’t have a choice, they’d have to push through. Fast.

 _Doable,_ if a little inconvenient.

“Snipers,” he said. “Two-o-clock, balcony.”

“Sir.” Next to him, Piers levelled his rifle.

Chris shot him a sideways glance. Smiled. The enthusiastic focus Piers carried on his pinched brows reminded him that, if there was a team that could punch through without breaking a sweat, then it was the one at his back.

He had high enough standards, Piers standing to proof the point. Fresh faced, a sort of _can’t grow a beard but will nail you at 1.5 kilometers with a .50 while half asleep_ look on him, Piers had proven him time and time again. He made an excellent ATL. And an even better friend in-between deployments.

Now the only thing left to address was his youthful enthusiasm. But one thing at a time.

Chris threw a look over his shoulder at the rest of his team. Ready. Waiting. Hands on their weapons. Eyes set on their surroundings, not letting anything go unnoticed.

Now or never.

He set his jaw, felt the rhythmic beat of his heart picking up, and let his breathing slow to make up for the rising tension. _Let’s do this._

Left hand up— ready to give the order for the advance— fingers curling around his rifle— ready to snap it forward.

And life decided to question _doable,_ and threw a spanner into his proverbial works.

Down below, the insurgents sprung into action. Heads turned, weapons came up, and the snipers shifted further out of sight from their previously easily accessible position.

Un-fucking-fortunate. Chris ground his teeth together, thought _Shit,_ and watched life turn complicated.

Three additional combatants spilled from a building left to the barricade.  

“Captain..?” Piers sounded skeptical, ready to receive new instructions. Of course _Captain_. Of course _him._ Always him. _God damn._

“Yeah, I see it.” Chris swiped thoughts of _Why me?_ aside, and began to rethink his plan while he watched things get hectic down below.

The three newcomers were dragging a fourth one from the building. He didn’t come quiet. Put up a fight.

_No, she._

Chris tracked them with his scope. She wore the same outfit as the insurgents. Uniform and all. But she didn't seem altogether ready to cooperate with her brothers in arms. The three men—J’avo, he corrected himself—had their hands full with her squirming and kicking, but there _were_ three of them and only one of her. To her credit, she did manage to slip the grip on her left arm and snap her elbow into the throat of one of them. That might have knocked any ordinary man out flat, but the J’avo barely flinched. He tore her arm back, hollered at her, and hauled her forward.

She was damn persistent though, Chris had to give her that much. Constrained or not, the woman yanked her legs up. Kicked at the J’avo in front of her. He was thrown backwards and out of sight, only to be replaced by a fourth that grabbed her kicking legs and left her suspended in midair.

Chris hesitated. Let his mind pick at what he saw and rewound his options, and added the new variable.

Point A: Not a civilian. B: She’d probably had no idea what she’d signed up for. C: Signed up for it nonetheless.

A combatant, then. Like the rest of them. Even if all she did right now was wiggle about like a fish out of water. Better yet, a distraction. His stomach knotted. Unkind and telling, because he’d never liked to make a habit of reducing people to _right side_ or _wrong_ based solely on the insignia tacked to their shoulder.

But with the snipers…

The J’avo holding the woman’s legs pulled a silver syringe. It glinted in the dim light, caught in the scope he’d kept trained on the complication/distraction/combatant.  

_No. No, you don’t._

Chris dropped the scope. Snatched up his H&K G-36. Disengaged the safety. Took aim. Had, obviously, made up his mind somewhere between this exhale and the drag of cold air before.

“Piers! Syringe!”

The J’avo brought the syringe down. It connected with her neck— and his head vanished. Here now, gone then. A memory of pink mist and the tremor of Piers’ shot rattling bones and displacing the air around Chris. Even through his protective earbuds, the crack was deafening.

And a little too late. Signed up for it or not, no one deserved this. The woman arched her back, body rigid with pain, and let out a sharp, heart-wrenching cry before the J’avo dropped her. His heart sank, and Chris knew he’d have to stand judgement against his own conscience later.

He’d hesitated. This was on him.

_Later._

For now, he had more pressing matters to concern himself with.

The insurgents turned their attention to his team. One raised an AK, and Chris squeezed his trigger twice. First one down. But that wouldn’t do; their element of surprise was gone, his men outnumbered and the snipers in good cover. No, his original plan wouldn’t work. The J’avo were too well dug in.

_Plan B then._

He tapped Piers' shoulder, who snatched back the rifle from his firing position without question.

“Piers, with me. Alfonso, keep them busy.”

A curt, “Yes Sir,” followed Chris as he sprinted to the building to their left, Piers close behind. A wave of his hand, and they both lined up by the door, ready to kick it in with their booted feet. It gave way with cracking hinges and they followed the falling wood into the first room, rifles at the ready and sweeping from corner to corner as they advanced.

Musky air, creaky floor, turned over furniture. No contacts.

They reached the backdoor—a happily yellow painted thing with two dead civilians collapsed in front of it—and he pushed it open to move on to the next house.

* * *

 **S** adja’s whole world was on fire. No, correction, her _neck_ was on fire. It burnt. Ached. Throbbed. She hit the ground, shoulder cracking against the pavement. That too, smarted. Though not as much. She clutched at her neck where that ugly son of a bitch had stuck her, and for a moment she thought her skin was bulging, twitching. As if something was trying to worm its way out of it. Coming alive.

_ELAYA’S HOLY CUNT — this HURTS_

The last time she’d felt pain that pure she’d had her soul stripped bare by the Nightingale. Strand by strand she’d flayed it. And then dropped her like a dead sack of meat.

Pretty much just like _they_ had, really.

Sadja rolled onto her back, fingers still pressed tightly against her neck, and stared at the grey skies above. Each breath came in icy gasps, followed by a whimper on the way out. Her eyes watered. Her mouth hung open with a scream that lost its voice somewhere on the way, and above the clouds raced across the skies. They moved too fast, like the world decided to hurry it up and get the day done with.

Then came the universal rat-tat-tat of gunfire and the frantic back and forth of booted feet, and Sadja felt the beast throw itself against its cage in distress for both their miserable selves.

_ < Get up! > _

Sadja wished she could follow the urging, but the pain alive in her neck disagreed. It paralyzed her. And then, as if to add insult to injury, a body landed on top of her.

_Bollocks..._

*** * ***

**H** is gamble paid off.

Three houses down, an alley granted them a perfect view of the nest. Minimal resistance on the way, too— just a single insurgent lounging in a doorway, facing the wrong way out. He’d be staying there, because J’avo or not, a broken neck was a broken neck.

Cover was poor from their approach. A wooden post— trash bins— tight doorways. But the insurgents were off worse. Much worse. Between Chris focusing on the group on ground level, and Piers taking care of the snipers pinning their team down, the engagement ended maybe five seconds after contact.

Quick. Easy. _Doable_. Textbook.

Chris secured his rifle, let it rest against his chest— out of the way, but still very much in reach —and tapped his com unit. Time to move on.

“Good work, men. Move up and regroup at our position. We’ll—“

“Captain,” Piers interrupted. He’d swapped his rifle for his SMG, which was pointed straight ahead, at something still very much alive in the pile of corpses behind the barricade.

* * *

“ **G** ood work, men. Move up and regroup at our position. We’ll..“ —  “Captain…”

Sadja had faintly registered bodies dropping all around her and the gunfire dying out. The pain had been slow to go, but by the time the last one had hit the ground with a muffled _THUMP_ and the _rat-tat-pop-pap_ had gone off to echo through the streets, she’d thought it safe to try and wiggle her way out from under the body. If she hurried, she might be able to get away before whoever had shot up the creeps arrived.

Wrong.

Spectacularly, _incredibly_ wrong. All sorts of _should have played dead_. Should have done a lot of things, really, and some different. Like when she’d decided to cover her neck with Sinvik’s _barr_ to keep herself from freezing an hour earlier. Daft. Daft, _stupid,_ fledgling Keeper.

Blind to the rustle of discord around her, she’d gotten herself into trouble right quick. Gotten caught, actually, and Sadja didn't do _caught_ , not usually. She blamed the cold. The Wasting. The Cataract, for making her so mad and having her rave at it for being such a cunt. Everything and anything, really, and she'd been mopey as fuck while they'd dragged her off. 

And now the bloody thing was still draped around her neck. Warm and cozy and all that, but effectively cutting her off from the Verge, rendering any attempts to borrow strength futile. Strength she could have really used right about now, what with being trapped and all that.

Footsteps approached. The careful sort. Tentative and wary.

She pushed against the body again, harder this time, and almost managed, too. But a pair of mean firearm muzzles swam into view and promptly had her reconsider.

Sadja froze, arms extended awkwardly. Two men stared down at her over the barrels of their lethal playthings. Not looking very happy either. Not in the least. Worse still, they’d come armed to the teeth. Not like the goons that had dragged her from her hiding space before, who’d had their gear haphazardly thrown together, their weapons crummy at best, and their boots all manners of worn.

No, these two were cut from a different cloth.

Military, most like, with shiny toys and righteous chips on their shoulders. Or so she told herself.

She sighed. At least their faces weren’t all messed up. Upsides and all..

“Don’t move,” the younger one barked at her. Barked, because that’s about what the sharp string of noises amounted to, all gruffy yap and ill intent.

He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. Short, light brown hair crowned a smooth, youthful face. Handsome features, she thought, with bright, hazel eyes currently fixed on her. Not missing a beat either if she was one to take a guess. A hostile scowl pulled his eyebrows together and set his lips into a sharp line. On top of that he had his finger hovering dangerously close to the trigger of the snub-nosed firearm pointed straight at her head. One twitch and she’d not have to worry about the Wasting any more.

Sadja complied.

Though it did take quite a bit of energy that she really couldn’t spare. Coping with the exhaustion and residual pain was already difficult enough with the _barr_ wrapped around her neck, her soul tightly bound by it and nothing there to lend her strength. Keeping the body up soon turned out impossible, so she decided to lower it once her arms started shaking.

When she did, he tightened his grip on his weapon.

“I said, _don’t move!_ ”

“Piers…” Grunt number Two said and placed a placating hand against the weapon pointed at her. It moved to the side. Just enough to no longer threaten her with immediate death, but not far enough away by a long shot.

Hehe.  _Long shot._ Short shot, really-  _Oh, shush._

“Sir, she’s been infected,” Grunt number One, Piers, protested.

_Wait, what? Infected?_

“I saw. But the dose should have turned her by now. Until we know why, try not to kill her.”

 _Turned me?_ Her neck itched unpleasantly in response.

Unlike the Piers character, Grunt number Two looked… blimey, he looked concerned. Evidently the hothead's senior, what with his dark hair flirting with wisps of grey at the temples, he also stood at least ten centimeters taller than him. But older or not, his muddy blue eyes were no less keen and alert than those of his second.

Grunt number Two turned briefly, his attention shifting to more footsteps headed their way, and Sadja noted an insignia tacked to his right shoulder. It had the name **_Redfield_** stitched above it.

When he looked back at her, lying on the floor (as she so did these days) his brows furrowed and he rubbed a gloved hand across a stubbled chin.

If she’d not been at a disadvantage she might have found it droll how she was giving this _Captain Redfield_ a headache, but truth be told she just wanted out and be gone.

The footsteps arrived. Orders were exchanged. Something about a BeeEssAyAy and a rendezvous; and her being turned in for testing. And all the while the Piers character was not taking his eyes off her, lest she twitched suspiciously and needed to be filled with projectiles.

So Sadja did what Sadja did best: Pretend.

She kept her expression set to worry and fear and ignorance. As far as she was concerned, they were assuming she couldn’t understand a bloody word, since not once had they addressed her directly. Not even asked her if she might be needing a hand to get up.

Which was terribly rude. Really.

But she’d understood the _tested_ part — and that was not going to happen anytime soon. Not if she could help it anyway. The fledgling Keeper did not mind needles, but she did not agree to being dissected, and chances were she’d be violating rule number two quite thoroughly by letting them pick at her.

“Let’s get her up,” Captain Redfield finally said.

Piers gave a brisk nod to two more men that had clustered around her. They both levelled sidearms into her direction, while Piers let his own snub-nosed rifle fall against a strap around his chest. Redfield, in the meantime, hunkered down beside her. She expected him to drag the body off her, but he got himself distracted.

His eyes snatched at hers. Focused there, or at least made a show of it. _Look here,_ they seemed to say, and she humoured him. Careful, steady fingers followed, tugged the _barr_ off her neck. Slow. Methodical. And the muddy blue eyes stayed on her.

_Cute._

He was trying himself at calming her down, at soothing the wide eyed terror she presented him with, and hushing the whimpers she added here and there for good measure.

Cold air snuck in where the scarf slid off— and when his last tug broke the circle, Sadja sucked in an involuntary breath of air. Not fake, this time. She hated it when someone else but her undid the binding. The timing was _always_ off and she never did quite manage to prepare for the teasing whispers before she could slam her gates to shut them out.

While she busied herself with sorting the disarray in her head, Redfield’s eyes skipped to her neck and something he did not like.

There was that brow furrow again.

“You’ll be all right,” he lied before he finally lifted the dead weight off her. Then he grabbed her right upper arm and pulled her to her feet.

She let him.

*** * ***

**C** hris helped the girl to her feet. She was light as a feather. Wiry muscles tensed under his grip, but she showed no sign of having any fight left in her. Once upright, her honey coloured eyes darted this way and that, still as wide and clueless as when she’d been buried under the J’avo’s corpse. Then she dropped her chin to her chest and her shoulders slumped — both of which gave him an unpleasantly good look at the injection mark.

He swallowed and his chest gave an apprehensive squeeze. An angry red pinprick sat in the centre of a black spiderweb of tainted tissue fanning out towards the crook of her shoulder.

At first, he’d thought the injection might have missed. But now he didn’t know _what_ to think, aside of a handful of variations to: _What the fuck?_

She should have turned. Not been laid out flat with nothing to show but irregular tissue and shaking shoulders. No. The C virus didn’t wait— so what if she was immune?

Hope added itself to the tight pull against his chest.

Unlikely. Too good to be true, and Chris squinted, half expecting her to turn right then and there. His finger twitched against his rifle, ready to kill her anyway. Why did this have to be so damn complicated?

 _Relax,_ he thought. _Wait and see, Redfield. One thing at a time._

“Piers, cuff her.”

His ATL grabbed her by an arm and pulled her roughly to the side, almost dragging her off her feet again.

“Easy on her,” he chided before tapping his com unit.

Piers glowered into his direction, but stopped strong-arming their captive. Their very complicated captive.

“HQ.” Chris stepped away from the group and waited for the reply, his mind still picking at _What next?_

“Captain Redfield, report.”

“We are on the move again, ETA is ten minutes.” He glanced at the sand coloured scarf he had removed from the girl’s neck. Strands of red fabric were woven through the lighter material. It was blemished, well worn. His eyes cut up. She was probably getting a bit cold. Might be he should give it back.

“Be advised, we have a prisoner, potentially immune to infection.” He paused, threw a quick look at the passive girl who was having her arms bent behind her back while Piers got the restraints ready.

“I recommend extraction to a secure facility once we hand her over.”

“Acknowledged. Be careful out there, Redfield. We are meeting heavier resistance than expected. Reinforcements are on the way.”

The radio clicked off. Okay. That was that. Now—

Piers shouted a warning; “Sir!”

Chris whipped around and found chaos unravel in front of him.

The girl twisted from Piers’ grip. A quick jerk to the right— a dip in her knee— a sharp jab of her elbow to his solar plexus— and she’d slipped free. Weapons snapped to the ready in unison, pointed squarely at her. But before anyone could claim a shot she’d woven around Piers. Quick. Damn quick.

Her foot connected with his knee. Staggered him, and gave her a chance to snatch his sidearm from the holster on his thigh. She looped her right arm around Piers' throat, pulled him back, into his own weapon dug into his side. It jabbed forward. 

The street came alive with frantic voices: “Piers!”—“Let him go!”—“Drop your weapon!”—“Drop it _now_!”

The whole unit bellowed at the girl at once, until Chris lifted his left arm to get them to quiet down. They complied.

A brief, chilled hush fell. Let the cold in, smelled of death again. Old death. New death. Impending one. Chris set his jaw and sifted through ideas. He’d not lose Piers.

He wouldn’t lose _anyone._

“Drop your guns, lads.” The complication’s voice broke the silence, and she twisted the sidearm into Piers’ kidney. He winced, shrunk away from the pressure.

Wouldn’t lose anyone. Couldn’t. Chris’ fingers clenched.

“I’m not at all into the whole violence thing on pretty-boy here,” she said, her honey coloured eyes a flash of color from between bangs of dark hair. Not once wavering from the stare she’d caught him in. “Especially after you’ve just boxed me out of trouble so nice. So put those shiny pieces to the floor and he won’t have to bleed to death.”

The fear was gone. The uncertainty and terror erased.

She’d fucking fooled him, and she’d fooled him good. What was left was clear intent, and she’d levelled it all right at him. No one else seemed of consequence to her, even Alfonso.

 _Good man,_ Chris thought as he saw him hover outside her field of vision. Alfonso sidled to her right, sidearm at the ready. One more step and he would have a clear sho— She shifted her weight slightly, brought Piers around just enough to keep her out of Alfonso’s line of fire.

As if she had eyes at the back of her head.

“Tssk,” she hissed. Her head gave a quick tilt to the side. Chiding him, or mocking him, or maybe both, while the unnerving stare never faltered.

“Guns. And be quick about it too. Your tussle earlier is bringing in more creepy-folk and I’m sure you’d like to be having your weapons back by then.”

She had a steady voice. Melodic. And despite considering himself well traveled, Chris couldn’t quite place the accent. Not local, obviously. British maybe? Irish or Scottish? No, none of them quite fit. Either way, she was being candid on her threat, and probably right as well. More J’avo were likely already on their way. Chris flexed his fingers.

This was not going as planned. A lot more _inconvenient_ than _doable._

“All right.”

He lifted his rifle to the side and, slowly, slung the strap over his neck.

“Captain, don’t…” Piers protested, teeth clenched, but Chris shook his head.

The unit followed suit. One by one they lowered their weapons to the ground. And her eyes stayed fixed on him. Like a cat waiting for the wrong twitch.

“It’s all good,” he tried to reassure Piers. Or her. Or himself. All of the above, probably. “We don’t want any more trouble. Just let him go and you can be on your way. But—“ Chris offered a disarming gesture, palms up “—you’ve been injected with a dangerous viral agent. It may yet kill you. We have a medical team ready to help… if you come with us…”

Piers arched his back slightly as she gave his kidney another jab.

“Thanks for the concern, but I feel fine. Now have your men turn away, get on the ground, and put their hands behind their heads.”

He sighed. “You heard her.”

They reluctantly followed through.

“Fantastic. Can’t argue against a man who knows when to listen. Now come over here— slowly —and hand pretty-boy the scarf.”

Piers gritted his teeth.

 _The what?_ Oh. Right. He was still holding on to it. But why…? No, you didn’t argue with madmen. Even less with madwomen, and so he approached as instructed, hands still held in front of him. When he was close enough she jabbed Piers again. He grunted.

“Come on. Fetch.”

Piers did, gingery picking the scarf from Chris’ outstretched hand, and with the trade done, she began marching him backwards towards the alley they’d come through just minutes before.

“Good boy,” she purred as they reached the sidewalk, a thick, throaty sound that sounded awfully out of place in this no-man’s-land of stalled death.

“You’re a very well behaved puppet,” she added. Placed an awkwardly angled peck on his cheek. “I’m sure your mother would be proud.”

Piers’ neck flared crimson. His throat bobbed. And Chris feared he might round on her and get himself shot.

 _Don’t,_ he wanted to say, spread a hand in a halting gesture. _Please dear God, don’t._

He didn’t, and she released him from her lock, turned him around, and stepped back to gain some distance. The gun came up then, pointing square at his chest, while her right hand gave a quick wave for the scarf. Piers, still red faced, rolled it into a tight ball, and tossed it across.

She swiped it from the air—and he lunged for her.

Chris’ stomach gave a sickening lurch.

He dove for his rifle, shouldered it—and levelled it just in time to see Piers having his legs swept up from under him.

There’d been no final _BANG_. No death. Not yet.

With Piers on the ground— Chris opened fire.

* * *

**_O_** _h you little…_

Sadja felt the ripple of intent rolling off the hothead with such clarity it was almost funny. And she’d just started to like him, too. What a waste. So she let her finger twitch against the trigger and shot him before he could lunge for the gun as he’d intended to.

Or would have.

Nothing happened.

_Crap..?_

_ < Ha! > _The beast mocked.

_Stuff it._

She slapped his incoming arm away with her palm. Let his momentum carry him a step too far. Snapped her elbow up. Right _there_. Into his throat. Staggered him, and Sadja dropped to the ground to ruin his footing with a swipe of leg. He went to get all cozy with the ground — and she almost felt the anger too late.

No, not anger.

Wrath. Distressed wrath, actually.

Like someone had just kicked your favourite little doggy right in front of you and you were about to unleash great pains on them. With that someone being her.

The hail of bullets was instantaneous. She barely had enough time to scamper up against the wall before the pavement where she’d just been was torn up.

_ < He’s angry. > _

_No shit!_

And so she ran. Her first cover, a stack of metal boxes, rattled loudly as bullets tore into it. Her second cover, a nice fat wooden post, got chewed into, too. And then she found a door, nicely ajar. She skidded through—and promptly tripped on a corpse lying straight in the doorway. A dirty blue carpet rushed up and greeted her with a slap hard enough to knock the air out of her. She wheezed, spluttered, bit her tongue too, and felt the righteous wrath bear down on her.

_ < Get UP! > _

_On it On it On it_

Feet up under her again, Sadja bolted for the next best thing she thought would get her out of trouble. A stairway. Up she went, one loudly creaking step after the other. Behind her, heavy boots hit the carpet she’d just almost taken a bite out off. Then they thundered up the stairs, too. Woodchips went flying and quaint little framed pictures lining the walls were smashed to pieces as the gun went off and spat death into her general direction.

_Shit, that thing is loud!_

She reached the corner just in time before he could clip her. Right first. Now left. Slam the door. Throw over that cupboard— _Hea-vy!_ —window! She ran to the window with its flowery curtains, pulled it up. Or would have at least. It wouldn’t budge.

_ < Latches. LATCHES! > _

A loud bang at the door. Two loud bangs. Three, and the whole room gave a bloody shudder as the righteous wrath threw itself against the thing. Sadja felt incredibly small then while she fumbled for the latches. Something scraped against the floor— the cupboard. Moving. Shuddering. Tilting. Ready to fall. First latch open. Second latch. The window slid upwards, revealed a two story drop. Another building lay just across the narrow alley. It came with a balcony hanging from its front.

Balconies were good.

She could do balconies.

*** * ***

**C** hris kicked against the door one more time, felt the wood budge— and then settle back with a scrape and thud. He threw himself forward. Knocked himself against it, very much aware of how his shoulder would be having a word with him about that later, but _shit_ this wasn’t working.

One more try, and he considered heading downstairs and circling the building, when hurried steps pounding up the stairs drew his attention to a flicker of hope.

Piers.

He looked at Chris, a grim nod and a determined pinch to his brow saying all that needed to be said, and together they managed to drive the door open.

Too late.

He caught a whisper of movement at the window as they barged in. But when his rifle came up she was gone. And by the time they reached the other end of the room she was no-where to be seen. Chris leaned from the widow, glared across the alleyway, at shards of glass littering the balcony the next house over, and a wide open door gently swayed on its hinges.

Gone.

He sighed, secured his rifle, and turned to face Piers, who stood staring out the window with his jaw set and hands clenched around the window sill tightly.

Okay. With _that_ out of the way there was something else that needed addressing.

Chris grabbed his shoulder and turned him around. Anger flared between them. Misdirected, but there. Being grateful that Piers was still alive could wait until the anger was dealt with.

He’d been stupid. Reckless. Full of youthful enthusiasm; a frequent synonym for deadly fervour.

“What were you _thinking!_ ” Chris took a step forward. Piers shifted backwards. Half a step of obedience. “She could have shot you!”

“She wasn’t going to, Captain.”

“That’s one hell of a risky call to make. You didn’t know that, you were _reckless!_ ”

“No, Sir. She couldn’t have.”

Chris stared blankly. “What?”

“The safety was on. The whole time too, I think. If only I’d— damnit!” Piers let out a frustrated growl, balled his left hand in a fist and slammed it against the wall on the right.

Right.

Chris allowed himself a deep breath.

“Okay. Alright. We’ve got a rendezvous to make. Radio it in on the way, let HQ deal with her.”

“Sir,” Piers confirmed, and they carried on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update 29-12-2016, Extensive editing on Redfield's POV to be more... Redfield <3


	3. Safety on. Safety off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will begin to introduce flashbacks which draw from Sadja's life and her world. They start with double brackets and are enclosed in the same, all in an effort to prevent confusion.

**SAFETY ON. SAFETY OFF.**

* * *

 

《《 Sadja watched him over the rim of the steaming cup. His hands reassembled the ranger he’d cleaned swiftly, lifting slides back onto their rails, snapping pins back where they belonged — _click-click-CLACK_ — and gradually putting the thing back together piece by piece. Once in a while his stormy gray eyes lifted from his work to meet hers. She’d twist the cup in her hands then, and looked around the room trying to find something more interesting than Nath vil Paric. It proved difficult, if not impossible. The man was a pain, drawing attention with all the squares and angles of his face and the deeply set brows and his shaggy, salt and pepper hair.

The _Seditio_ ’s common room was deserted and quiet. Soft, yellow light shone from the ceiling. Shelves stood against the walls, lined with plates and bowls and glasses, along with the once in a while odd thingamajig the old crew of the air-ship-thing had collected during their scouting trips on Trero’s surface. There was a see-through jar of filtered midnight sap for one. And a lustrous figure carved of marble wood.

 _That’s one big tush. I bet her back hurts, too_.

They’d even collected a bottle of fine, pitch black starry sands and a stuffed squirrel, of all things. And not a single one of the dark metal walls and bulkheads around the shelves was bare. Clay masks, dried twigs, a sword resting in an ornate scabbard in the Ward’s hated colours… there was a wealth of things up here, all perfectly normal to her, and perfectly special and treasured to those who had once brought them here. Except the collection of framed paintings depicting alien cities and foreign lands. Those were memories of their origin, their home. One long abandoned and long lost. And amongst them, sitting in the middle, was a large, fine painting of what had once been the McRaynes crew.

Sadja craned her neck to look at it, rather than meeting the Nath’s stare. The Pariah had no respect for privacy, never had, if Sinvik was to be believed. Sinvik was a bit of a fibber, but this, this Sadja could believe.

 _Oh Vik—_ Sadja thought as she looked at the old painting. These people, these souls long lost, they’d been hers once. Her people.

There was Zachary McRaynes in his midnight blue Captain’s uniform, sat with his elbows propped on his knees, resting his chin in his hands. He was a tall and fiercely handsome man. Broad shoulders, long white hair pulled back taut in a ponytail, and a thick matching beard on his square jaw. His youngest son, Kenneth, had inherited well. He wore his dirty blond hair short and spiky, but aside of that he was a spitting image of his father as he sat next to him; The pilot and first mate.

Eric and Erica, the older twins, stood behind them both, arms draped over each other’s shoulders. They fit right in too, although their fair hair was curled and their dark brown eyes stood in contrast to their father’s and brother’s light blues. Mechanics and medical, with Eric keeping the Seditio afloat, and Erica keeping the crew in working order. Two more men stood flanking the family. Sadja didn’t know who they were. Or had been, rather.

“Theo and Reese,” Sinvik’s gentle voice cut through her thoughts.

Sadja glanced up and watched the Keeper step around the table to stand by the painting, just a little off to Nath’s shoulder.

“You shouldn’t do that, you know—“ Sadja complained. “Read me like that.”

The Pariah’s lips twitched into a lazy, lopsided grin over the barrel of the Ranger he worked on. Sadja felt herself flush a silly crimson.

“Wear your binding then,” Sinvik chided, but didn’t turn around. “Or get those gates up proper. You’re practically screaming out there.”

“Am not,” Sadja protested and Sinvik turned to face her, her thin lips curling in a brief ghost of a challenging smirk.

She always made Sadja feel small, even though Sinvik was a finger width shorter than her. But she always stood so bloody straight, with her shoulders squared and heavy tension rolling in front of her. It was the weight of her responsibilities, Sadja knew. The years that had piled up on her shoulders, every decision, every action she’d been forced into. The burden of a Keeper— and then some.

Though then there were those eyes too, the colour of honey much like her own, the ones that seized her up with every glance. Like right now. They tested her. Dared her. Loved her. Like the big sister she was, even if they shared neither mother nor father.

Sinvik stepped away from the painting and settled herself in the chair next to the Pariah, while Sadja allowed herself another moment to enjoy the painting.

She liked it. She liked everything about the common room. At one point this had been where people had _lived_ , and you could still feel the ghosts of their souls whispering from the walls. Echoes. Faint, but lively in their own way. Ripples that danced across the edges of her own soul, reminders of emotions, rather than the actual thing.

The table she sat at was large enough to comfortably seat the whole crew, with a spot or two to spare. It must have been cluttered with their lives at some point — things useful and not. This was where they’d eaten. Spoken. Laughed. Cried. Grieved. Celebrated.

Now, now it was just a little empty, with three intruders sitting by it, their work splayed out atop of it.

Three different firearms lay across the table (two small ones, one with a long barrel and a heavy stock), each neat and clean after Nath had finished with them.

“You’ll have to let me teach you,” he said and Sadja looked back at him. There was that stupid curl of his lips again, the one that dipped right up into his salt and pepper shadow clinging to his jawline. How had Sinvik managed to endure that man for so long?

“I already know how to use them,” Sadja fussed. “Point business end at target and—“ she lifted one hand from her cup and twitched a finger to demonstrate —“pull trigger. Right? It’s not that hard.”

He laughed. “Of course you know how to use them. You shot your husband, remember?”

The Pariah was gone, and there sat Ceat instead, with his slim bony shoulders, the long locks of black hair and the dead, green eyes. His temple bled crimson.

“He shouldn’t have taught you,” he accused her with pale lips parted in death. 》》

_Shouldn’t have…_

Sadja lifted her eyes from the useless sidearm. The memory had come unbidden and sudden. It rattled the cage in the pit of her stomach and drove hot needles through her heart, none of which the fledgling Keeper had any use for right now. So she took a sharp breath, and stared across at the shingled roofs spreading below the church instead. Or at least what she thought to be a church. Places of worship tended to be alike, no matter where you went. The subject of their devotion varied (sometimes more, sometimes less), but they all had their tell-tale signs. This particular structure stood taller than the buildings around it, with two spires striking for the skies, and had one large main hall lined with plain benches — all pointed straight at an altar cluttered with shiny gold and silver. Some unfortunate fellow nailed to a cross was on display behind the altar, immortalised in sturdy dark wood.

The place had been empty when Sadja had snuck in through the heavy gates. There’d been bodies in the aisles, since one went to seek comfort where one prayed, but none of them had stirred and no one had come at her from the shadows alcoves either. Small blessings. She’d climbed the stairs to one of the spires, and found refuge perching just below a heavy brass bell. Out there, across the sea of buildings, things were looking grim. Grimmer than before. Pillars of black smoke rose from between buildings. Explosions rocked the air. Airship things moved across the bleak skies. Some of them ended up spiralling into the city, sending up more flames, more smoke.

This place was regularly fucked.

“You’re a right _git_ ,” Sadja told the absent Cataract. Better to get angry, than think of Ceat. So much better. “You were supposed to help me. But you can’t give me a break, can you? You go ahead and serve me up a _war_. That’s _not_ how you help. That’s being a jerk! You get me shot at, poked with fuckery—“ she grabbed at her neck, where the injection still itched “—and then you don’t even answer when I call. So, let me respectfully declare… Get scraped. Get bent. I’m through with your pointless errands, your cryptic messages and empty promises. I’m through with _you_.”

 _ < You tell it. > _ The beast mocked her, a sour cackle sitting just below her heart. She banished it back into its cage, where it roared with cruel mirth and told her death was a-coming.

“I’ve had enough. I’m done.”

It had been a mistake to plead to the Cataract. She could have just let things go, told Sinvik that it was _okay_ that she was dying, that letting go wasn’t so bad. At least then she’d not have been left stranded _here_ , wherever _here_ was. Now she’d abandoned her, too. Sadja ground her teeth.

They’d not even said goodbye. Not really. She hadn’t even looked back. Her fingers found the fabric of the _barr_ Sinvik had given her, curled into it and squeezed.

Her eyes stung with tears. She wiped her arm against them, banished them, too.

“I’ll come back, if I can. Promise.”

Though first she’d have to get out of the mess at hand.

Sadja collected her thoughts, squared her shoulders, and began pacing along the sides of the spire’s platform. Whitecapped mountains and rolling grey hills surrounded the war torn city. They looked mighty tempting, but she couldn’t see a single safe route through the ever tightening battle lines, no matter into what direction she looked. Heading out there in a beeline was certainly an option, but she’d rather not have to do so unarmed. Which brought her right back to where her musings had begun. She stopped, propped her elbows up on the railing in front of her, and turned her attention back to the sidearm. It was a small thing, much less blocky and heavy than the C.R.A.D.L.E’s original arsenal. Fitted nicely into her hand too. The casing was smooth metal, the handle ridged for a better grip. She remembered the tight stances of the men that had pointed the same design at her in her last scuffle, and lifted the gun with a two handed grip, tucking in her elbows slightly to mimic them by memory. Then she squeezed the trigger, resulting in the same whole lot of nothing as before. It didn’t budge.

_Grrr…_

She relaxed her stance and took another closer look. Slide at the top. A hammer ready to fall at the end. That was familiar enough, except more delicate. To fire a _Ranger_ you had to pull the locking pin from the firing chamber. She saw no pin to pull on this little thing. To fire the more compact sidearm variety, all you had to do was flip the lock up along the length of the grip before serving someone a bad day. Nothing there either.

_Poppycock…_

A loud buzz drew her attention away from the puzzle, and Sadja turned her head about to look for its source. The buzz quickly turned into a steady _THUD THUD THUD_ chopping at the air, and soon enough the fledgling Keeper saw one of the most grotesque things she’d ever laid eyes on being flown towards her. A formidable flying steel ship was headed her way (well, no, the church’s way), and attached to its belly hung a monster three stories tall. Gnarled, leathery brown skin folded over bulging muscles. Long, bent hindlegs were held tight against its belly, and a crooked pair of arms with claws too large for the whole thing hung loosely by its side. Its broad jaw hung open slightly, revealing a row of yellow teeth longer than her arms. Sadja balked at the foul muck that filled the _Verge_ around her as the thing came closer. She’d looped the _barr_ around her belt _-‘Better to be cold than dead.’-_ but she could have done without having to feel _that_ . The fledgling Keeper gagged… and then dropped to the ground with the flying steel ship continuing its approach. Didn’t need them to see her and decide to shoot up her hidey-hole. _THUD THUD THUD_ , the ship continued, and passed by close enough for Sadja to get a good whiff of the stink of corruption wafting off the creature.

_Poor sods…_

Whoever that thing was headed for was about to have an exceptionally bad day.

_None of our business._

Sadja jerked her head to the side and smiled grimly. She stretched her legs out in front of her and listened for the ship’s departure. While she did so, she glanced at the sidearm in her lap, and noticed a small catch on the left, just below the hammer. Her thumb flicked it down. A small red dot was painted on the other side.

“Huh.”

The fledgling Keeper lifted the gun away in her left hand, pointed it into the general direction of the skies, and squeezed the trigger. The bang of the discharge was amplified by the bell hanging above her. It rang her ears good and proper and the unexpected recoil jarred her wrist and kicked her arm back. But it _worked_. Now all that was left to do was get out of here. In one piece. Without holes in her.

_Simple enough…_


	4. Part 2: Life in the City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... in which Sadja finds a drunk bear wandering the streets of Edonia at New Years, and Chris Redfield is very tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadja likes to keep a journal. It will be used to move the story forward a little bit quicker. Journal entries will be locked inside little fat quotation marks. I hope they show up for everyone.

Part 2: Life in the City

**SRETNA NOVA GODINA!**

* * *

  

> ❛ **Day One**
> 
> My feet hurt. Toes are going to fall off. Ears aren’t doing much better. Bloody cold and not getting any better. But a Keeper doesn’t complain.
> 
> Poppycock.
> 
> **Day Two**
> 
> Knocked a guy’s teeth out. Stole his coat. It's long and woolly and warm. Better than the small jacket, also hides the sidearm better. Haven’t used it again, and hope I won’t have to. Ah, almost forgot: Took his socks too. All that considered and whatnot, things are looking much better. Cataract is still being a bitch though.
> 
> Poppycock.
> 
> **Day Three**
> 
> Blended in with a whole stream of refugees leaving the area. Got a ride in one of those bumpy wheeled beasts of burden. They are loud and they stink of burning putrid oils, like the bellies of the Rigdale. Was crowded on there. Lots of desperate faces. Bleak faces, with eyes empty and staring into a whole lot of nothing. Played it right then, and ended up flying the rest of the way. Those things aren’t much better. Even noisier too, with those blades spinning at the top.
> 
> Really shouldn’t feel so sorry for the raggedy sods left in the freezing mud. Weather is getting worse. Started snowing.
> 
> _Not my problem._
> 
> _Not my problem._
> 
> _Not my problem._
> 
> Poppycock.
> 
> **Day Four**
> 
> They left me in a tented camp, where everything’s sinking into the cold sludge. The misery hurts. Had to keep the _barr_ on all the time. But at least it stopped snowing in the morning, and I found a blue-helmed man who actually understood me. Played that right too, and he said he’d take me to the city. Arrived there just before nightfall. Ta-Ta, blue-helmet man. Sorry I couldn’t stick around.
> 
> **Day Five**
> 
> Thanks, Vik.
> 
> **Day Six**
> 
> Alright, I owe you, Vik.
> 
> **Day Seven**
> 
> If I have to thank you one more time— ❜

Sadja sneezed. Her writing hand slipped, dragging a black line halfway across the journal page. _Shit._

“ _Na zdravie_ ,” a man next to her slurred. He’d been keeping her company for an hour now; Him going through one clear alcoholic drink after the other, her still nursing her first but impressively tall glass of something they called _pivo_. Tasted like beer, except horridly stale, lacking the spice and flavour of the brews back home. 

“Thanks,” the fledgling Keeper lifted her glass and raised it towards the hunched over figure in one of the most universal gesture of acknowledgement she’d ever come across. She had no idea what he’d just said, but it felt like the right thing to do. He gave a nod, rubbed at his shaggy dark hair and returned to the stained newspaper in front of him. Ever since he’d sat down next to her half an hour ago, he’d probably gone through three pages altogether. A slow reader, that one. Sometimes his cracked lips moved as he murmured strange words to himself, and sometimes he smiled and sometimes he frowned. But he left her alone, and she could appreciate that. She’d picked the corner of the bar for a reason, with the wall to her right and a good view into the main room of the place. It was a fairly clean place too, at least by the standards she’d seen over the last two evenings. This one even had proper tables, with most of them still in one piece. And chairs. And curtains. It was thick with smoke in here though, and as the evening matured, more and more bodies piled in. So yes, he was good company. All he’d done was grunt at her in greeting when he’d sat down, and left it at that. Even better, he didn’t smell as bad as he looked with that rundown coat of his. The shoulders were still wet from the heavy snow outside.

Sadja flipped her pencil between her fingers and sent it into a mad dance across her knuckles. Today was different. The town felt… different. _Better._  The aftermath of the conflict she’d fled still clung to the area, and while there did not seem to be an immediate threat, the large city had not exactly been buzzing with everyday jovial tomfoolery.

Today though…

It didn’t even take a Cad’his to notice. People were shaking off the despair nibbling at their minds, and for the most part they succeeded. She could have done without the occasional pop, crackle and whistle of fireworks, but that too seemed to be part of today's excuse for celebration. Not like the fledgling Keeper had much of a reason to join in. She was still stuck here. Seven days, and each day the Cataract ignored her. Seven days of pleading on her knees, and clamouring to the skies with fists raised high. She’d bargained. She’d begged. She’d hoped. She’d cursed.

Why’d she changed her mind anyway? Why couldn’t she just keep hating the bloody thing and wish it’d never cross her path again, rather than grovelling like a kicked dog waiting to be let back in after it had been shut out in the rain.

Not like it mattered. It ignored her, and she was still lost and alone, with only her thoughts and the pages in front of her for company.

_Still dying, too. At that rate all this nestling Keeper will leave behind is a crummy journal that’ll read like the ramblings of a kooky tit._

The pencil she’d been twirling between her fingers slipped. It bounced off the wooden surface of the bar, and went flying to the left, vanishing into the sea of moving legs and shifting bodies.

_Nice work._

“I think this is my cue to leave,” she informed her quiet companion.

He grunted.

“Mh, ’s been a pleasure meeting you, too.”

She flipped her journal shut, grabbed her black coat (all new, and even warmer than the one she’d nicked a few days ago) from the hook below the bar, and shrugged it onto her shoulders. The journal she tucked away in an inside pocket. A dark blue woollen cap found its way onto her head. This was more like it. Comfy, heavy and warm and ready to meet the biting night. On her way out, Sadja scanned the busy floor for her pencil, but the trusty little tool was gone. One more thing from home that she’d never see again.

_Better get used to that._

Once out the door, Sadja was greeted by cold winter air, and a flurry of snow picked up by the wind. It stung her cheeks and throat, so she snatched the  _barr_ from her belt.

_Let’s live a little dangerously tonight, shall we?_

She bound it around her neck with a few practiced loops. The barrier snapped up and as if on cue the familiar and distant pressure against her carefully supported gates stopped. Her spine tingled, and the tension gave way to the buzz of tight muscles finally allowed a chance to relax. She turned away from the bar. Down the street she went, following the sparsely placed lamps lining the sidewalk. There wasn’t much to be seen. White covered white, and white danced through the air, and more white piled onto vehicles standing still against the curb. It seemed like no one but her felt much like being outside either, and whenever she saw another figure hurrying through the night, they quickly fled the street through an entryway and vanished. With the snow falling so heavily she couldn’t hear much either. Everything was muffled, including her own footsteps as she trudged along. It was peaceful enough. The silence that came with snow was about the only thing she enjoyed about winter.

Sadja ducked her head forward, pulling her chin to her chest, and dragged the _barr_ up to cover her chin and nose. Peaceful, yes, but cold as Hell. And Hell was cold. Really cold. Really fucking freezing your tits off cold. The fledgling Keeper would know, she’d been there, and she’d found it very much wanting as far as comforts were concerned.

Sadja kept walking. She’d roamed these streets for the last three days, and it was beginning to get easier to find her way back towards the centre of the city. This time she managed to only get turned around twice before she realised she’d been headed into the wrong direction.

Progress, one might say. Continual failure, another would object.

But once she’d gotten her bearing the second time around, Sadja finally reached the main street that would lead her back to her quaint little crib.

The sidewalk was no longer abandoned here, and the farther she went, the more people shuffled through the snow with her. Small groups of them moved as one, their muted conversations and laughter drifting through the frigid air. They were all headed into the same direction, and hardly anyone was walking on their own — much like you’d expect at a day of celebration.

_Maybe we should go check it out. See what’s what. Get drunk instead of down. Get merry._

Sadja kicked at the snow. _Poppycock_

A high pitched whistle on her left had her snap her head around. Golden light streaked through the air, drawing a barely visible line through the falling snow. When it hit altitude it exploded, a hazy display of reds and greens and blues. Without the weather shot to hell, this would have likely been quite pretty. Though the flurry of white obscured the spectacle, dulling its effect. Sadja trudged on.

Ahead of her, another lonesome traveler was dragging his feet through the snow. He carried a long knapsack over his right shoulder, and moved with a swaying, limping gait. Drunk, Sadja concluded. She caught up with him, and was just about to pass him, when a group of youngsters came flying up the street from behind them. Their quick footfalls carried them past, and as they ran they were followed by a series of loud cracks and pops that echoed through the street. Sparks sprang from the ground where they threw their devious little explosives. Those little fuckers had a lot of them, and they were certainly enjoying themselves.

The knapsack carrying drunk was not.

As the first one burst with a loud crack, he flinched. The second one had him stop in his tracks, and the third gave him the look of someone ready to dive down a foxhole.

Sadja couldn’t blame him. She’d been spooked the first time she’d heard them today, and had likely made herself look like a right fool when she’d ducked into an alleyway. Yeah, not one of the fledging Keeper’s proudest moments, that one.

He was still frozen in place when she passed him, and much out of habit rather than anything else, Sadja stopped. She craned her neck to catch a better glimpse of the unnerved fellow, and leaned into his field of vision to get his attention.

“Cheeky skunks, mh?”

He looked at her, and Sadja almost bolted down the street after the kids.

At first, she froze because this clearly couldn’t be the same man who had tried to weigh her down with projectiles seven days ago. He couldn’t be here. Had no reason to be, as far as she could possibly imagine. And Sadja’s imagination was known to stretch to quite the extent. Then she stood still just in case quick movements would set him off. He looked the type, all glowering muddy blue eyes, one bloodshot and swollen, and a slight hunch in his stance. Like a lazy bear getting up for breakfast.

“Yah…” he said. And started walking again.

Sadja gawked at his back. Snowflakes danced merrily into her face and nipped at her cold cheeks. She sniffed, scrunched up her nose, and turned on her heels. The fledgling Keeper took small blessings as they came. There was no reason to bait the fates if they decided to be kind. Much like you did not jog after lazy bears, since they might just decide to have a swipe at you after all. Even if it was just to make a point.

So why was she doing just that? She’d managed two steps down the road before she pivoted on the balls of her feet, and fell into a slow lope after the bear.

When she caught up with him, Sadja slowed and kept pace with him. A whiff of stale alcohol and tobacco crept up her nose. A smelly bear then, one that was ignoring her.

Up ahead, another sharp whistle and a series of crackles marked the silence.

“Hey,” she said.

Nothing. He kept plodding on as if she wasn’t even there. What was his name again? Captain something. Captain Redline. No. Redfan? Redsomething, anyway. She’d forgotten. It had clearly not been important then.

“Mister,” Sadja darted forward, and placed herself straight in his path. When he didn’t slow, she took one step back after the other, throwing the once in a while quick glance over her shoulder as to not fall on her ass.

“I’m talking to you.”

He looked up.

“I’m not,” was all he had to say before he shouldered his way past her, almost knocking her off her feet as he did.

Sadja veered to the side. You’d think she would have left enough of an impression to at least warrant a little more than a curt dismissal and a bump. A bit of irritation maybe, or even anger and a raised fist. Was that too much to ask for? _”I’m not.”_ Really? That was it?

She sighed, righted herself, and hurried after him. He walked with his hands in the pockets of an old, grubby looking grey coat. Sadja stuffed her own hands down her pockets too and fell in step with him. Right foot, left foot, right foot… In her pockets she found her box of matches and the folding knife she’d picked up yesterday. Her fingers played with them as she went. Left foot, right foot, left foot…

One of his steps might have accounted for two of hers, but he was limping, so it wasn’t difficult to keep up.

On a closer look, she noticed a dark reddish stain on his lower right leg. Dried blood, she figured. A green woollen cap sat on his head, pulled right over his ears. He also carried what seemed to be a permanent scowl that had taken up residence on his face. Not a thoughtful one or particularly angry one, but one that told her he considered the world by itself a great offence.

Since he refused to acknowledge her, Sadja let him lead the way. Up the street first, then across one of the many narrow bridges spreading across the wide frozen river. A cold wind dragged at their coats, and they both pulled their shoulders together a little tighter. And on they went.

Once across and on the river’s promenade, Sadja had to weave and skip past what amounted to an almost respectable crowd of people. Yet he kept plodding on. Everyone, man woman or group, seemed of the right mind to part around him, and he cleaved a path through the crowd by sheer ignorance to his surroundings.

Three minutes. She pulled the _barr_ from her face and sucked in the fresh air. Five minutes. If he kept walking for another ten’ish of those he’d reach the town centre that snuggled up against the river up ahead.

More whistles parted the air. More cracks. More colours, too. The snowfall was easing up, making them easier to see.

“What’s with all the fireworks?” she asked Redsomething.

He removed his hands form his pockets then — Sadja held her breath — and pulled up a small white and red packet. His fingers opened it clumsily, until it finally produced a smoke and lighter. The smoke went between his lips. It bobbed listlessly up and down while he fumbled with the lighter, his fingers bumbling and stiff from all the cold and drink.

“Did someone win a war?” She probed while watching him lose his own private conflict with the uncooperative thing. By the time he stopped walking he was giving it a glare very much like the one she’d expected to receive herself. The one that promised doom and suffering.

Sadja lifted her box of matches from her pocket and shook it to get his attention. The rattle drew his eyes.

“Or did your liege lord die and now everyone’s all aflutter? We do that sometimes. They can be dicks.”

She pushed the box open, pinched a match from the pile, and lit it with the flick of her wrist.

“Or do you just like setting things on fire?”

He cupped both hands around the flame when she lifted it against the tip of the cigarette.

“Don’t get me wrong, there’s all sorts of things right with that. I can get behind lighting things up.”

Vacant, unfocused blue eyes looked at her through the haze of the small fire and the puffs of smoke that escaped through his fingers. They were dirty eyes, the corona laced with shreds of mud. Heavy eyes. Old eyes. Older than they should be, with things etched into them that they should have likely never seen.

She cocked her head.

Gone was the hint of murder directed at the dead lighter, but not a sign of recognition had come to replace it either. Just a drunken man’s lost stare that went straight through her. How discouraging.

“You’re welcome,” Sadja offered as she dropped the still lit match to the ground. He kept his eyes on her quietly ( _more_ quietly, if that was even humanly possible), before finally deciding that he’d stood around long enough. The lighter he tossed towards the river, where it clicked across the frozen surface.

He kept plodding on and Sadja followed.

Three minutes. Five minutes. To their left, people started coming _out_ of the places that lined the promenade. They teetered and swayed, with loud boastful voices bellowing their strange words and laughter following in their wake. “Sretna Nova Godina!”, some shouted. Sadja turned her eyes to the skies. It lit up again, with more and more colours. There was hardly a beat between each whistle now.

The silent type next to her paid none of it any heed.

She glanced back at the people. Couples stood with arms slung around each other, exchanged kisses and soulful looks alike. Sadja sniffed. _A warm hand wrapped around hers and squeezed gently. “We’ve been great together, much like them. Don’t you agree?” Ceat asked. “It’s a shame you had to kill me.”_

“Go away…” Sadja whispered and shrugged her shoulders tightly.

As if on cue, the silent Redsomething changed course. He broke off from the edge of the promenade and walked through a group of women all dressed in tall black coats and frilly faux fur trimmings.

Sadja paused. He didn’t give a toss. So why bother then? Curiosity? Sure, the fledgling Keeper was an eager beastie, for better or worse. _Worse, mostly._

But she knew better. It was the pang of solitude, ever so nagging at the back of her head, informing her that her soul and body were still having themselves eaten slow and steady by the Wasting.

He at least understood her when she opened her mouth, even if he wasn’t of a mind to listen or humour her with a reply. Much like a wall, really. Sure, there was a perfectly fine set of walls waiting for her back at her crib, too. Quiet, white walls. She fidgeted from one foot to the other, rotated her right wrist and flexed her fingers before tightening them into a fist. Another small group of people came out of one of the watering holes along the promenade, drawn to the spectacle in the skies like the rest of them. He went inside instead, and propped the door open before it could fall shut.

And then he held it there.

“Huh.” As far as invitations went, this one wasn’t too shabby. Her mind having been made for her, Sadja wove through the throng of people after him and slipped through the door. It closed behind them.

This place wasn’t much different from the rundown establishment she’d bailed out of earlier. Hot air flushed her cheeks, smoke stung her eyes and her nose gave an offended sniff. The main difference was a throaty tune playing in the background, though it was mostly drowned out by the chatter of the patrons.

For a few heartbeats, Sadja and Redsomething stood on the muddy mat covering the entryway, much like a pair of stray dogs that yet had to decide if they’d wandered into the wrong place and would get into trouble. Sadja half expected someone to come at them swinging a filthy broom, but when that did not come to pass, she started into the room, making a point to bump her shoulder into the silent type’s arm as she went. She headed for a patch of free real estate at the bar and climbed onto one of the rickety high chairs.

“What a delightful place you picked.” Sadja shrugged off her coat, slipped the hat from her head and rubbed both hands across her itching skull.

A wearily smiling woman came up to them while Sadja was still busy sending her hair into proper disarray. She gave the counter a swipe with a stained cloth, all the while looking properly worn by what must have been a long shift. Yet she managed to sound upbeat enough as she (probably and hopefully) asked them what they’d be having. If she was actually telling them to get out and get properly bent, Sadja’s order for more of that _pivo_ would have been downright awkward.

“Whiskey,” said Redsomething.

“A what now?” Sadja asked, but he had promptly returned to ignoring her.

She turned to face him, placed her boots square on the footrest of his barstool, and studied him. The shabby looking coat was still on him, but he’d dropped the pack and dragged the woollen cap off his head. His short cropped hair was disheveled and an unkempt beard had grown to cover his square jaw. He sported a strong nose and chiseled features, but his skin was blotched red from the cold and the excessive amount of alcohol he must have been throwing back. The scowl was still there, too. It focused on the bartop for the time being, as if the wood had committed some hideous crime against his person.

Sadja pushed against the chair. No reaction.

When their drinks arrived she nudged his leg with hers. Not a peep or twitch there either. The amber liquid sloshing about the short glass in front of him seemed miles more interesting than her. So she did the next best thing she could think of, and swiped the glass away from him before he could pick it up himself.

“What’s that then?” She gave the liquid a sniff. It smelled harsh and potent, the sort of drink a Cad’his best stayed away from. The sort the Pariah carried in his iron flask with the bright orange cap.

“You don’t mind, do you?” she baited and took a sip. Yes, definitely something to stay away from. “Evidently not…” Disappointed, Sadja placed the glass in front of him again. He grabbed it immediately and tossed it all back in one swig.

The refill came promptly.

“You look a bit torn up,” she egged on and leaned in slightly, hovering just a few centimetres from his hunched shoulder. She propped one elbow on the counter and tilted her head. There was a chance his ears were terribly bad, right?

“Girlfriend dump you and kick you out?” she asked while he idly turned the glass between his hands. “Looks like you’ve been sleeping in none of the good places. Smells like it too. When’s the last time you showered?” The glass kept turning. “You should try it, it helps with the blues and you’re way deep in there aren’t you?”

He paused, took a sip, and sighed. Then he held the glass in front of him staring through the amber liquid into whatever hazy reality he’d chosen to live in.

“Lost your job?” Sadja’s eyes took a tour, and noticed one of his coat pockets facing her. “Both?”

She snuck a hand into the pocket, wishing for a wallet, but finding only the pack of smokes from earlier. She pinched it, placed it on the counter, and carefully balanced it on one of its edges so she could spin it around.

He kept staring through his drink.

“Okay, let’s start with something easier then,” she gave in and started tapping the pack against the counter instead. “What’s your name?”

_tap-tap-tap_

“I’m thinking it starts with _Red_ , but I can’t go calling you _Red_ , that’s what you call folks with orange hair.” _tap-tap-tap_ “You, Sir, have no red hair. So what’s it going to be then?”

He cared little for that too, but he _did_ snatch her wrist. When she didn’t let go of the box, he squeezed. A polite enough squeeze at first, just barely flirting with pain, but the longer she held on, the tighter it got. By the time his thumb pushed down painfully, Sadja hissed and dropped the packet in a hurry. He held on then still, and she gave his calf a quick jab with the tip of her boot. That eased the grip, though he didn't let go. It also earned her the first decent glance, one that stayed on her instead of going straight through her as if she wasn’t even there.

It was hostile enough, but mostly he just looked… tired. _You’re dead on your feet, aren’t you?_

He exhaled wearily, released her wrist, and grabbed for the pack instead. While he looked at it bleary eyed, as if to remember what he’d wanted to do with it, Sadja took a few gulps from her _pivo_. The foam tickled her lips. She also rotated her smarting wrist and flexed her fingers. Eventually, Redsomething decided to open the pack and knocked it against the counter. A lonely smoke tumbled out. Another drawn out pause followed while he rolled the cylinder back and forth in front of him, but eventually he picked it up and stuffed it into his mouth where it rolled uselessly between his lips.

Then he flicked the empty package at her. It slid across the counter and landed in her lap. And his eyes turned to her, the hostility put on hold. 

Sadja raised an eyebrow at the almost hopeful look he was giving her. If _hope_ was to sit squeezed between misery and apathy, that is. Poor thing. She pinched her matches from her coat and lit one of them. He leaned forward, but she kept the match just out of reach of the smoke.

“Flame for a name,” Sadja insisted.

The fire licked away at the thin wooden bit, and she half expected her plan to fail awkwardly with her burning her fingers and dropping the thing. But he gave in.

“Chris.”

“Great.” And just in time, too. “We’re getting somewhere.” She lit the smoke for him and this time he awarded her a barely visible nod before once again pretending that she wasn’t there.

“So, Chris. What are you doing here?”

He puffed at the cigarette. Took a swig from his drink.

“What happened to you?”

One more swig, and the glass was empty.

“Are you always this annoying?” He slurred and propped his elbows up on the counter so he could rest his head on his hands.

“No. I’m usually a lot worse,” Sadja confessed and finally undid the _barr_ around her neck. Enough was quite enough. If he wasn’t playing nice, neither would she.

She opened the gates to the buzz of whispers, and let her soul take a peek at the weary man in front of her.

Souls are evasive and private. They yield to nothing but their own desires, and will stand tall even when the body fails and crumbles. Even the most powerful of Cad’his cannot simply redraw or reshape a soul’s purpose. A stubborn mind remains stubborn and a heartless one won’t change its cold and detached ways just because you tickled it in the right spot.

But Sadja had also felt many a soul stripped bare. She’d brushed against careless ones and unguarded ones, tripped over those so flimsy she’d barely noticed them at first. And if there was one thing she’d learned in the last few days, this world was _filled_ with the heedless and malleable kind. You couldn’t throw a proverbial rock without hitting someone who was just dying to be persuaded they’d like to hand you their wallet and pass you their puppy.

Chris Redsomething didn’t have a puppy with him, and Sadja somehow doubted his wallet held much of value. And neither was he, by any means, one of the meek in the sea of clueless souls clustering in the Verge around her.

There was a presence to him that spread wide and tall, casting her in a shadow as it swept by; But then it crumbled and withered, and what it left in its wake was exhaustion. It was a miracle he could still sit upright. The drain on his soul manifested itself as a vortex strong enough to latch itself onto her the moment she grazed him. It dragged her along with it, almost convinced her that she was the one who was yearning to close her eyes and rest her head against the bar.

She yawned.

If only she could slow down. Stop. Breathe. But she couldn’t. She didn’t know why, but it was important that she’d stay afoot. Just one more step. And one more. And then another.

Sadja shook her head. No, not her. She’d stopped running. Not like it had done her any good anyway, especially since it had been her own bloody self nipping at her heels and wanting to gnaw her own head off. Years ago. Or yesterday. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, brought a moment of clarity with the sting of her teeth.

If the fatigue he felt was bad, the pain was worse. He was torn and frayed. His soul lay in tatters around him, with nothing quite where it should have been. Not a thing was _right_. Everything seemed distorted and out of focus, like a puzzle tossed carelessly to the floor. Some pieces were straight out missing, others just broken and no longer fitting where they should have been. The hot and greedy tendrils of loathing that lashed out at her whenever she tried to get anywhere near a piece did not help the situation either. Sadja’s soul recoiled from the violent touch, all hissing and spitting as she went, like a cat dumped into a bucket of cold water.

The contact had been brief. A heartbeat, two at most the most. But it had been enough. She’d flinched away, knocked over her _pivo_ , and spilled it to the last drop.

“Ah, bollocks…” Sadja fumbled to righten the glass. A futile gesture, but it gave her a chance to collect herself and withdraw from the lingering touch of the broken soul.

“You’re messed up. Very messed up,” she whispered. A remnant shudder of discomfort crept down her spine.

“Messed up, but lucky,” she added, this time loud enough for him to hear, if he was so inclined to. “Vik always said to pay your debts in full.”

The falling glass had drawn his attention, and Sadja found him scrutinising her much like one might a loony cookie.

“So whether I like it or not, this is me doing you a favour.” Sadja slid off the rickety chair, and grabbed her coat and hat. The hat was soaked with _pivo_ , so she bunched that up and shoved it into a pocket.

“You’re dead tired, aren’t you, Chris?”

His shoulders twitched - no or yes, did not matter. She still had his attention and that was good enough.

“I bet you’re also cold…” at that she sidled up next to him, knocking her shoulder into his arm. Her otherwise idle hand rummaged for a loose bill of money in her coat and slid it under the empty glass in front of him.

“…and you probably want to hold on to this.”

Sadja leaned forward and lifted his knapsack from the floor. It was surprisingly heavy. She hefted it over her shoulder, and quickly turned away as he tried to grab for it. He missed and she chided him with the click of her tongue.

“Relax, I’m not going to run off with it.” She also picked up his hat, and shoved it against his chest. “But you look like you’re about to pass out. Right here. And right here is not a good place to be doing any of that.”

He bristled at that. “I don’t remember asking you for help.”

“No, of course you haven’t. But you’re not going to turn it down either.”

_I’m sorry._

Sadja offered a quick, disarming smile, while she allowed herself a gentle tug at the weariness clinging to him. She added some of her own. The lashes she received for it burnt, but at least it worked. Chris Redsomething visibly deflated a little more as his fatigue turned to the unbearable. There was still a hint of defiance there, buried under all the need to collapse and never rise again. He might have even argued, if given time. But she let him have none of that, and simply walked off.

He was a stubborn one, and if he’d not been down in the dregs to begin with, Sadja might not have been able to convince him of something he didn’t agree to. Though body and soul could only ever take so much before they allowed themselves to grab onto whatever lifeline they could find. For now, Sadja would play along and be just that; A lifeline. Much like Sinvik had been for her. Unwelcome, at first, yet very much necessary.

Sadja held the door open for him as he walked with her, his muddy eyes skipping over her and falling forward into the night in defeat. He passed by close enough to send her soul skirting around the turmoil he carried with him. Sadja flinched and tried to skitter out of reach of all the self-loathing and pain that left her feeling lightheaded and nauseous.

 _This will be fun…_ she lied to herself and followed him into the cold.

Like many a thing, Sadja thought, this was likely going to get a whole lot worse before it stood the slightest chance of getting any better. And the fledgling Keeper should know.

She’d been there.


	5. A change of clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Chris Redfield gets hit by a sledgehammer and we enjoy some of his misery in a little too much detail. Also. Coffee.

**A CHANGE OF CLOTHES**

* * *

**W** aking up felt unnecessarily unpleasant. Like having his head knocked into a wall. By a hard hitting sledgehammer— _WHUMP-WHUMP-WHUMP_ until the whole world rang him awake and he lay with his heart racing in his chest and his thoughts scattered into a murky void of nothing.

Chris ambled after them at first. Back into the oily well of darkness that passed for sleep these days, and back to the little boy he’d left there.

His heart stuttered a name, _FinFinFin,_ though he didn't recognise him. Never had, and didn't think he ever would, or that it was at all important. Then, each night— or whenever he was stupid enough to close his eyes —the little boy’s mouth cracked open in a startled _o_ — widened and widened, lips tearing, jaw cracking — his eyes thick and black.

Then a door would slam shut between them and Chris threw himself into it. Drummed his fists bloody, because the boy did not want to die, and who was he to let him?

But the door didn’t budge.

Wouldn’t ever.

His throat locked up. Snared shut by an icy noose. Air. He needed air, and Chris tried to pull in a lungful. _WHUMP,_ the sledgehammer went, rapped against the base of his skull and made to rip his head off. The tendons in his neck spasmed. Cold sweat pooled against his skin.

And whatever had kept him under let go.

Chris groaned, tried to crack his eyes open and— _WHUMP_ said the sledgehammer again, all brilliant white light and impeccable aim. It connected with the crown of his brow, rung him stupid, and proceeded to split his head straight down the middle.

He changed tactics. Squeezed his eyes shut tightly, turned himself away from the pain by shifting his weight against his right shoulder—

_Ah, shit…_

—and felt sick.

Bile and misery climbed his throat, and while he swallowed it back down, one bob of his throat after the other, he counted off the telltale signs of a textbook hangover: Parched mouth. Stench of stale alcohol. Cold cigarette smoke clinging to skin and hair. The unsteady sensation of lying flat on a wobbly boat bouncing along a river hell bent on getting him to throw up. Right now. Right here. Wherever here was.

And dear lord, did he need to piss.

That he was lying on a mattress, not against cold and hard ground (both of which had made up the sum of his sleeping experience the past few nights) registered a few more slow inhales of air later.

 _Focus, Redfield,_ he told himself and pushed himself up against a weary arm. He didn’t try to sit. Not yet. That would have been asking too much and way too soon. But he tried to crack his eyes open again, more carefully this time, feeling his right eye sting with an echo of pain.

He remembered that pain from yesterday. And the day before that. When hadn’t it hurt? Week before that? Maybe? He didn’t know. Couldn’t tell. Couldn’t remember.

The sledgehammer stayed away this time, and Chris was left staring at a broad window sitting in the wall opposite him, cracked open and allowing in a whiff of crisp, fresh air.

 _Okay_. That helped. A little.

The window lacked curtains, instead a gray blanket had been thrown over the rail on top of it. The blanket was pulled back now, making room for the bright daylight to come spilling in.

He looked at the plain white covers his legs were tucked into, then at the floor. No bed frame. Not floating on a river either, come to think of it. Just a single, wide mattress dumped right on the floor.

_Okay…_

Him and the makeshift bed were the centre piece of a spartan room; In fact there wasn’t really much else in here at all. He craned his neck up. That hurt, but he welcomed the drag of pain against his stiff muscles as the movement coaxed them awake. It cleared his head. Not by much, but just enough of misery to make room for a spell of necessary curiosity.

His eyes turned up, too. An empty light fixture stared back at him, exposed wiring worming its way downwards, and Chris frowned at the messy cables and plain white plaster around it.

Staring up eventually got his stomach to whine with an upside-down sort of vertigo, and he let his head fall to the side, his eyes still sluggish and a little too scratchy.

More white plaster, ceiling walls and everything, and a lone, small desk lamp toppled over by the edge of the mattress.

Chris stared groggily at the pathetic looking thing.

His stomach turned again— idle and unhappy —and he reached out to stand the thing up straight. If he couldn’t, at least it could. Right? For a second or two, Chris felt a little better about himself, thought that lasted about as long as it took his sluggish mind to catch on with the plastic bottle standing by the lamp, along with a neatly folded pile of clothing. A piece of paper rested on the top of the pile.

_What…?_

He blinked at it. Lamely.

_What is this shit?_

Where was he?

How’d he gotten here?

When?

Why?

His chest squeezed, heart thumping with alarm, and a quick rake of his foggy brain brought only unintelligible scraps of memory slipping back into obscurity the moment he tried to focus on them.

Except the boy with his mouth turned to a gaping _O._

Chris grunted, set his jaw, and threw the covers off. Slow. Steady. At a damn crawl, really, since he didn’t want to tempt his stomach.

Underneath the blanket he’d still been wearing the grimy sweater and jeans from last night. Or last week. Or last month.

 _Good,_ he thought, even if he’d been shedding dirt and soot all night long though, leaving the otherwise pristine sheets tarnished. And smelling like death. Chris frowned. Nothing a washing machine couldn't fix, he hoped.

He worked his legs off the mattress, asked his stomach _Ready?_ and tried to stand.

The answer came quick and with a resounding _No,_ one hard lurch of the room right, and then another left, and Chris sat down hard.

_Okay. Easy there, Redfield. One thing at a time._

He propped himself up with one arm, not quite trusting the world to stop trying to buck him off, and stared across the room at a plain, light brown door.

Chris squinted at it. Scowled, really, willing it to open and an explanation to come marching through, but when that didn’t come to pass he decided to give the paper and water a shot.

The bottle was cold to the touch. Frigid. He lifted it against his forehead, briefly enjoying the cooling touch, before his mouth turned so damn dry he thought he’d be spitting sand any moment.

He lowered the bottle, twisted the cap off, and ignored his desperate need to piss in favour of being too thirsty to care. After a few greedy gulps of chilled water, and then two more, to take the rest of the edge off, he turned his attention to the piece of paper instead.

 **_READ_ ** it said at the top in bold letter handwriting.

“No kidding,” Chris rasped at it and unfolded the note. The writing was small, clean. A woman’s he guessed.

**_These should fit. Down the left you’ll find a shower. Don’t mind me, just go ahead and do your thing. When you’re ready, you’ll find me downstairs._ **

**_Try not to break anything while you’re at it._ **

As if in afterthought a less carefully line was scrawled along the bottom, **_… oh and you snore terribly._ **

_Excuse me?_

He didn’t. Did he?

What sort of shit blackout was this?

Chris pushed his palm against his forehead. Growled. _Everyone_ had blackouts. He’d had them too— this one was just a little different. A little more infuriating. And it was’t like he had much of a choice but to roll with it, since the room only had one door. He didn't particularily feel like climbing out a window. Didn't particularily feel like _anything_.

He crumpled the note, tossed it through the room, and awkwardly worked his way to his feet. At least the floor stayed horizontal this time, and with the neat stack of clothing grasped in one hand, Chris headed for the door.

Wide open space waited on the other side. He stood on a walkway perched above a spacious and airy studio. To his right, a panel of tall windows granted a clear view of snowcapped city roofs, dwarfed by gray skies and roiling mountains of dark clouds.

He was up high then. Very high— dizzying kind of high, and the room gave the slightest of tilts left.

Chris stepped forward, grabbed onto a flimsy metal railing lining the walkway, and tightened his fist around it. It looked bare and unfinished, bolts and welding lines still raw and uncovered.

 _Everything_ up here looked unfinished, and while he waited for things to even themselves out again, he took stock.

The walls were painted a plain white. Not a single splash of colour. No decoration. Dark wooden planks covered the ceiling, but only reached about two-thirds before giving way to naked concrete.

His eyes cut down. Looked for a door— and found it on the far left, fed into by a short foyer sparingly outfitted with a blocky cupboard. A u-shaped kitchen connected to it, complete with three stools and a general feel of _so plain, it probably cost a fortune._

Chris leaned into the railing. Looked right.

A green carpet stared back at him, moss green and overly large as it stretched halfway across the rest of the floor, all the way to the wide windows, and weighted down by a couch, a low table, and a bloated recliner. Also plain. Also expensive. No TV though. Or plants. Or vases _with_ plants. Nothing worth a second glance.

Chris frowned and his eyes caught on the girl sitting by the windows. Perfectly still— perfectly inconspicuous, and if it hadn’t been for the light movement of her slim shoulders lifting with each breath, Chris might have overlooked her.

She was a slip of a shadow against the backdrop of bright light, and even if she’d heard him come from the room, she certainly didn’t seem inclined to show it.

_Well enough._

He’d rather dig through the foggy memory of last night before confronting her. That, and take a piss.

* * *

《《 **S** adja was losing her mind. _Had_ lost it. Dropped it when the Verge had cast her out and denied her to right to _be._

Curled against the hot ground, her knees pulled up and her arms wrapped tightly around her head, Sadja had long forgotten how to scream, but she’d not forgotten why she’d come up here.

How she’d dragged herself up the narrow, rocky stairs. One step after the other, her eyes feverish and unseeing in the dark, but she’d known where to go.

 _ < Up, > _ the grating voice had taunted. The voice that she'd thought at first she'd only ever imagined, that'd taken shape and found a mind of its own. The voice of something rooted in her torn, tattered heart.  _ < Just a little further— Go— Go— Left now. That’s right— keep going. You’re almost there. It’s almost time to fall. > _

Good.

It’d be better once she fell.

Quiet.

She’d not have to listen to _it_ any longer once she'd gone off that ledge. Wouldn’t have to hear herself beg, her own voice crack as she pleaded with Ceat. Screamed at him to stop. Wouldn’t have to feel her hand rock as the shot rent the air, and watch him topple to the side and hit the ground with a hollow sort of noise of the world ending.

And the Verge would have its wish, be done with her once and for all. Get rid of that bothersome cunt who had the audacity to still live. It'd be best for everyone if she kept climbing and climbing and climbing until she was high enough to fall. Then the Verge could stop flaying her soul against jagged rocks, and she could rest. Rest. Yes. Rest. That'd be nice.

_ < Don’t stop now. > _

Sadja gasped for air, willed her eyes open.

_ < See it? > _

The world had reduced itself to a blur of bright colours teasing her feverish eyes. She tried to crawl, groped at the rough floor. There was the promise of nothing up ahead. Bright blue skies against hard ground. The ledge.

 _ < You deserve this, > _the thing mocked.

She had no argument. Didn’t want one. Didn’t need one. She had the Verge whipping her to shreds, Elaya's sheltering Hem no longer wanting her, but shaking her off like a speck of dirt. If it wouldn’t have her, she had no right to be. Best not argue with that. Best just go. So she quested for her end, let her fingers stretch as far they would.

But she found nothing. Dirt. Dust. Couldn’t pull herself forward, her fingers unable to find purchase, nails breaking as she tried.

“Fell from your nest, did you?”

Sadja ignored the voice, since it couldn’t possible be here. It was just another figment of her breaking mind. It was cruel though, that she’d hear Keeper Shielding’s gentle whisper as she died. Remind her of what she’d done.

Icy fingers wrapped around her wrists. Thin and strong. Adamant to pull her up. She let them lift her into a cool embrace, a familiar flutter of dusk wrapping itself around her. It stood in stark contrast against the raging fires that consumed her soul. And it spread with each beat of her heart, cool and dark and comforting, sparing her the greedy flames and the withering retribution for her sins.

“Stay away from me,” Sadja croaked at Sinvik. _No, please don’t go._

The Keeper clicked her tongue.

“Shush and hold still, you’re making a mess of this.”

Sadja cracked her eyes open again, looked at the amber stare fitting itself right where it was all that she could see. They were ancient, those eyes. Pained. A faint, but gentle scowl rested atop thin brows. Thin fingers pinched her chin, kept her from turning her head away.

“Listen very closely now, Sadja. I’m going to give you a choice. A very simple one, no thinking required. But we both know that you’re poor at making decisions, even the piss easy ones, so let’s make this easy on you.”

The definition of _soft_ settled around her neck, one careful loop at a time. Wherever it touched, it left ripples of soothing silence and snuffed out the fire.

“This is me doing you a favour, whether I like it or not, and I expect you to give yourself a chance.”

One last loop, and the _barr_  bound her soul in place.

“Try not to mess it up, understood?” 》》

Sadja stared at the neatly folded _barr_ lying in her lap. The sand coloured fabric with the dark red stitchings, and its frayed and worn edges, looked insignificant enough. Just a shawl.  A scarf. A plain piece of cloth. Nothing to get all excited over, and yet it was the most important thing she clung on to.

Sinvik’s _barr_. The one the Pariah had given to Vik when she’d needed it the most. The one Sinvik had handed down to her now, when she’d needed it the least.

A hand-me-down to those who’d gone off the deep end. A borrowed life-line.

It wasn’t very fashionable. But neither had the bangs been that she’d worn wrapped around her arms, the hard metal for a binding that had been as much part of her as her own bloody skin. Even if she’d hated them and it’d been years since she’d shed them, it still felt a little odd to look at her bare biceps with the scar lines circling them. A bit as if she’d stripped herself naked and never quite slipped her clothes back on.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of Sinvik’s parting gift, and she thought back to the moment the Keeper had saved her from herself, at what else she’d been given that day.

A choice: Live or die.

It had been terribly simple, and yet she’d chosen poorly. Much like Sinvik had predicted. But even so the Keeper had worked around that, stubborn vixen that she was. If ever presented with a choice by Sinvik, it was easier to consider the outcome already settled, your mind made up for you before you'd even known. Whatever your decision, she'd still get her way.

So here she was, still breathing. Not a blob of meat and blood and dusty bones at the bottom of a spire.

Sadja sniffed. Her hackles rose, spine tingling. Behind her, a door opened.

Her guest.

The tentative footfalls of an uncertain soul plodded forward, then stopped. Careful eyes scanned the room and settled on her, driving an uneasy itch up her spine. The stare lingered for a few drawn out heartbeats, and she had to hush the urge to turn around and give him a hearty wave.

 _Patience,_ Sadja chided herself, kept her focus on the city landscape ahead of her, at the fading day darkening the skies. Maybe two more hours of light left, she figured, then dusk would creep up the horizon. If she hadn’t gone to wake him, her houseguest would have likely slept right into the darkness.

When he plodded on, Sadja finally turned. He wasn’t coming down the winding staircase at the end of the walkway, but continued to the bathroom.

She’d given Chris Redfield a choice, too.

Much to her relief, he seemed pretty good at making the right ones.

For now, at least.

 _Right then_ — She got to her feet, rolled her shoulders, and jogged her legs awake as she made it across the long room to the kitchen. Enough of all the moping.

On her way past the couch, she picked up the knapsack she’d dropped there while her guest had slept soundly, and slung it over her shoulder. The thing had been a disappointment. Through and through— or in and out, really. A curious beastie the fledgling Keeper was indeed, and not a lick of sense for privacy to go with it, but this time she’d found herself faced with nothing worth sniffing at.

A bloody uniform jacket with his name stitched to it, looking much like the one he’d worn the first time they’d met. Nothing in its pockets though. No pictures. No letters. Only a tiny colourful plastic circle with a string wrapped around it that you could throw away from you and then catch again as it came flying back at you. Kids back home played with those. too.

Odd.

No wallet, not in his coat either. Just a fairly thick clip of bills, some not like the others. Different currencies, she figured. There’d been a sidearm too, and she’d promptly added that to her collection, along with a slim black talking thing.

Out on the streets people used those all the while. They had them pressed to their ears while prattling into them, or held them right in front of their downturned faces while tapping away at them all the bloody while. This one in particular wasn’t working, but Sadja had her mind set to getting it to do just that again. And if she was lucky he wouldn’t even miss it, what with his head all on the wrong way.

The rest of the knapsack’s weight had come from essentials he’d lugged around with him, all the things you’d expect in a drifter’s trusty startup pack. Including two bottles of hard liquor. Sadja carried his belongings to the kitchen, where she dumped it on the counter for him to find. And then, with a slow grin spreading on her lips, she turned to face her latest acquisition.

“Let’s figure you out then,” she challenged the box sitting there and got to work.

How bloody hard could it be?

* * *

 **C** hris wiped at the fogged up mirror.

A dour face stared back at him, off no better than before. Still bruised. Still with the bloodshot eye. Still _shit_ and having him wonder if he'd shot right past forty and was scratching at the bottom end of fifty. Or maybe sixty. He grunted, rubbed the bottom of his palm against his chin, and stared at the angry gash cutting away from his left temple and halfway across his forehead. Stitched. Tinged red. Weeping. Chris tapped gingerly at it.

It stung right back.

_Do I do bar fights?_

Had he gotten into a row last night? Been knocked stupid? _Stupid-er_?

Chris scowled at his reflection, stood a little straighter, and counted off every bit of him that spelled out hurt.

Setting down his right leg properly was out of the question. Rolling his shoulders was a no-go. Blues and greens covered his chest and left side, all cruel, dull aches when he moved. A slow turn showed him a gash the length of his palm stitched just below his right shoulder, and he knew of another on his lower leg. That one had been bleeding. Heavily.

His hand dropped to his jaw. At least the dirty vagrant’s beard was gone, and that ought to count for something. The rest? 

Up for later assessment. For now he'd appreciate how his head had stopped pounding, a long while spent under the hot water having rinsed off more than grime and dust. It had cleared some of the haze from his mind too, leaving him to remember bits and pieces of yesterday and the day before.

Most of those he’d spent wandering.

He remembered a train and the confines of a carriage cart. Then walking, so much walking, until the city swallowed him. Though a lot of it he’d simple forgotten. Important things. Little things. Irrelevant details. Didn’t matter what it was, forgetting seemed to have become somewhat of a trend, one he’d found maddeningly difficult to shake.

Even last night came in tatters, wrought together around an overly curious set of honey coloured eyes, a heavily accented voice badgering him from the side, and one last march.

To here. With a fresh set of clothes.

Chris picked up a black cotton sweater, just as clean and neat as the jeans he’d struggled into earlier, and dragged it over his head. One more look into the mirror, and a quick swipe at his hair with the palm of his hand, and he felt about as ready as he’d ever be.

_Time to fill in some blanks._

A winding stairwell, just as unfinished as the rest of the upstairs, took him to the bottom floor. It creaked and whined with each step, and he wondered how the fuck he’d gotten up there last night.

_Small miracles._

Or just a bit of help, though the girl who’d moved herself from the window to the high chairs in the kitchen, didn’t look like she’d get very far with him leaning on her. Slim, bare shoulders was all she offered him on his approach, along with a narrow back tucked into an olive top, and bare feet poking out of dark slacks. They moved idly, her toes tapping against the chair.

Chris cleared his throat. She kept ignoring him.

 _Okay—_ He drew closer and took another moment to file away details on her. Long, auburn hair sitting askew in a knot at the back of her skull. Dark green tattoo lines curling towards her nape. A spiderwebbed mark of discoloured skin on the right side of her neck. And scars.

Not subtle ones, but the glaringly obvious kind, all ugly knots and gnarled tissue. They looped thickly around her arms, starting just short of her elbow and ending at the shoulder.

Scarred, and maybe a little deaf?

Chris glanced past her, noted the coffee maker she sat hunched over, and then let his eyes cut down to the matching cardboard box lying by his feet. He kicked it, sent it spinning across the floor, and in front of him the girl did some spinning of her own and turned to face him.

The same eyes he’d remembered from last night latched onto him, flicked up and down and left and right, and then met his dead on. She looked young. Maybe in her mid-twenties, he guessed. A bit boyish, with pale skin, pockmarked and imperfect, over angular features, and a straight nose dusted with freckles. Plain, thin lips twitched as he approached.

And for a moment, Chris thought he knew her. Not from the drunken haze of last night, but somewhere, _someplace_ , else. From months ago. Weeks ago. Years ago. Sometime that didn’t like him much, and when he reached for the tail-end of the memory it dove back into obscurity before he could drag it into the light.

_What the fuck..._

“I’ll be properly damned,” she chimed in the heavily accented voice that had bothered him last night. A thin eyebrow lifted, along with one corner of her lips. “You clean up nice. Might even pass for a genuine piece of man now.”

“Thank you.”

 _Oh, smooth. Very smooth._ Chris grimaced.

She pushed herself off the chair, bare feet landing softly, and tilted forward with a mock bow. When her fingers flicked to her forehead on the way up, mimicking a clumsy, inverted salute, his eyes caught on two more tattoos: small, intriciate and circular symbols just below the heel of her hand. 

“Don’t mention it. Or do, if that’s your thing. And here, those are definitely yours. The rest is by the door.”

She tapped the pack lying on the counter, and he was rewarded with a better look at the scars circling the arm. A freak sports accident? Tangled up in rope?

While his benumbed mind decided to chase down more wild guesses on where she’d collected those marks, his hand automatically lifted to reach for the pack.

“Now be a star,” she said. “And tell me what to do with this.”

“Wha— With what?”

“This,” she pointed at the coffee maker. “That black stuff is revolting, I’ll tell you. But I bloody love it. Can’t get enough of it, but can’t figure out how to make it myself. And they’re charging me half a leg for it out there.”

Chris blinked. So much for filling in blanks.

* * *

 **C** hris Redfield opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, and reminded her a little of a shoreling on its first trip out of the water. Confused, yet hopeful, and very much suffocating.

_Cute._

It took him a moment to drop the flabbergasted expression and regain his footing, and when he did, he looked about as sullen as he had last night. The heavy frown came back in force. No more nonsense, it said.

“What am I doing here?” Along with the question came a ripple of seething irritation that pushed harshly against her. Unexpectedly hard, too. She puffed out a breath of air.

He’d been so wonderfully quiet while he’d slept, despite what she’d teased him with in the note. Not a grumble or a snore to be heard. Except for that one nightmare, the one that thrown him into disarray and gone as far as to jolt her from her own sleep, driving right into her uninvited and scrambling her mind with a chaotic flurry of images. _Limbs, blood, torn tissue, snarling fangs. Faces, smiling—laughing—focused. Panicked._ She’d gone flying off the couch, cracked her head on the table on her way down, and been of half a mind to go up there and suffocate him with a pillow. But that had passed, along with the rush of adrenaline of the dream, and she’d lain on the floor with her mind abuzz with questions on how he’d managed to catch her off guard.

You didn’t go trip a Cad’his like that. Not even in her sleep.  

Nevermind. She’d packed the thoughts away for later, forced herself back into a fitful sleep, and he’d behaved the rest of the night.

There’d even been a tentative touch of curiosity picking at her soul when he’d first come down the stairs. Careful and guarded, but without threat. A good sign, she’d thought.

Well. So much for that.

Sadja sniffed and rightened the gates in her mind. She moved past him, giving him a wide berth as he tried to step into her path, and put the kitchen counter between them. She knew nothing of the man, truth be told. And while the fledgling Keeper was confident that he posed no threat, even if he’d wanted to, caution had never harmed anyone. Not outright, anyway.

“You needed a place to sleep. I offered. You accepted. Simple as that.”

* * *

 **H** e had?

_Obviously._

Chris kept a wary eye on her. She’d wandered towards the other end of the kitchen and nimbly sat herself onto the counter across of him. Piles of bags, cans and boxes were stacked around her. She crossed her ankles and started tapping idly against the wood with her fingers. He clenched his jaw.

_Who the fuck are you?_

She tilted her head and said: “Sadja Shielding.” Spelled it  _Sahd-yah._

“What?” She’d not just read his mind, had she? _Of course not, don’t be ridiculous._

“That’s my name."

Chris tried to shake the apprehension clutching tightly at his chest. He’d thought he’d left it flushed down the drain upstairs, washed away with all the dirt. But no such luck. Not by far. It was right here, an unnerving but familiar companion urging him out the door. He couldn’t stay here. Had to go. Didn’t matter where, just had to—

“So?”

Sadja —strange name, sort of— indicated the coffee machine with a jerk of her head.

“Don’t leave me hanging, Mister Redfield,” she taunted. Chris felt the anticipation ebb away.

Coffee.

He could do coffee.

Not a problem. Doable. 

* * *

 **W** hen Sinvik had dragged Sadja from her nightmare, one of the first things she’d made her do was… cook. She’d have rather cut herself open with one of the knives, but the Keeper let her have none of that. So she chopped up vegetables instead. Then she’d watched water boil. And sliced meat. And crushed things, and ground things, all the while listening to Sinvik retell stories of the far-flung corners of the worlds she’d seen and their curious cuisines. It hadn’t solved anything, of course. Ceat had still been dead. She’d still killed him. The grief was going no-where. As far as she’d been concerned, Sinvik was just being… Sinvik. Had she paid any attention though, she might have noticed how her mind would set on each small task given, and ran almost peacefully along the familiar motions of preparing a meal. Or just how delicious they’d turned out.

When the anxiety snuck up on Redfield, Sadja gave him another choice.

While he moved about to fill a canister on the odd thing with water — _I could have so done that myself_ — she picked a sealed bag of the _káva_ stuff from the pile on her right. Or at least she hoped that’s what it was. Quite a few things she’d bought and tried had turned out disastrous. Like the red bottle with the pictures of fruit on them. Not drinkable, no Sir. Not at all. This here moron of a fledgling Keeper had to spent a while under the tap then, washing soap out of her mouth. She peered at the package, turned it upside down and right side up. This one ought to be right. It said so on the—

—he snatched the bag from her.

“Coffee,” he said and looked at her with that scrutinising frown of his. Judging her degrees of crazy, most like.

“It’s called coffee,” he repeated while tearing open the bag. One last uncertain look at her, and he walked off with it. The pleasant smell that wafted from the bag went with him. Her legs twitched. _Sit,_ she told herself, curbing the urge to tag after him.

“Help me out here,” Redfield said while stuffing some paper he’d fished from the cardboard box she’d thrown away into the machine. “You yank me around about coffee, don’t speak a word of—” A shrug. “—live in a—“ Another shrug, this one a little guarded. He looked around “—fucking expensive apartment and—“

His words tapered off, gave way to frustration, and he turned to pour some of the black powdered _coffee_ into the paper thing, his jaw clenched tight and brows pulled down hard enough to have her think he was in pain.

“—have a questionable taste on what I drag through the door,” Sadja concluded for him when he wouldn’t rant on. “You’re in good company though. We both don’t belong, do we, Chris?”

He dropped the bag onto the counter with a thump and looked over at her.

“No idea what you mean.”

“What happened to you?” She repeated her question from last night.

No answer to that, she noted dully. _Fine._ Instead he picked up the cable attached to the machine, looked around, and found a socket for the plug. Then he flipped a red switch on the thing, and stepped away.

“Look, I… Sa—Sadja,” he started, threw her a questioning glance. She nodded. “Sadja. I’m grateful. Really, I am. But I didn’t need your help. And I still don’t.”

There it was again. The anxiety, swooping right past her and rushing him on. Sadja knew better than to try and fight that battle for him. That’d go nowhere really fast, except maybe places she didn’t want it to.

“You could still stick around. There’s plenty of room,” she offered. A nudge too hard, it seemed.

“I’ll pass,” he said. And meant it, too.

“Have somewhere to be?”

A deadpan look was all the answer he was willing to part with, and Sadja knew he might as well have been out the door already then. She shrugged, pushed herself off the counter, and walked over to the bubbling coffee maker thing. As she approached, Redfield moved away, gradually pulling towards her front door.

“Suit yourself,” she told him. “If you change your mind you’ll know where to look.”

And that was that. She heard the door click shut only a moment later.

Frowning, Sadja sat in front of the machine. She folded her arms, rested her chin on them, and listened to it bubble and puff, while the water trickled down black and tempting.

She rather hoped he’d come back. If he didn’t, she thought, these last days of hers were going to be quite dull.

And lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated 4th of January, 2017.


	6. The Specter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sadja finds herself haunted and is visited by a furnace washing up to her door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another odd one. This is the last chapter in which I will be introducing some more of Sadja. A bit of who she is, a bit of who she was and what she likely won't ever be.
> 
> After that we'll enter more familiar territory. One with a lot of Redfield in it. I promise.

**THE SPECTER**

* * *

**》》** “Where are we going?” Sadja pulled the cowl of her coat a little tighter and tugged her elbows against her sides. There were too many people here, she decided. And the air was too hot and humid, making things a whole lot worse than they had to be. Sweaty people pushed too close for comfort, all glistening greasy skin and bright, scarce clothing in all sorts of yellows and reds. The sidewalk reeked of stagnant water, and the only breeze worth mentioning carried dead things on it as it crept from the alleyways. _Everything_ stank, and she hated it. Hated her too, Sadja reflected, and glowered daggers at the Keeper’s back.

And she hated her own shoulders and her arms. Hated how they throbbed with dull pain and how the crusted skin wouldn’t stop itching. Her hands slid into the wide sleeves of her coat, traced up along sweaty skin. The tips of her fingers paused at the edge of the oozing wounds. She wanted to start scratching at the fresh scabs, tear them right off. But then the Keeper would get all worked up and slap at her ear and tell her to stop being such a baby.

Sadja wasn’t a baby. She was hurt, and she was lost, and she should be dead, because that’s what waited for murderers, did it not? There were laws for that sort of thing. Elaya herself condemned whoever took the life of someone they'd bound themselves to, judging those particular sinners guilty without mercy and seeing them dead. 

The thought of a noose relieving of her suffering pulled Sadja's legs to a halt. Ahead of her, the Keeper paused with her.

That stupid woman had eyes in the back of her head. Or just an invisible tight leash on her that she couldn’t shake. The latter, Sadja suspected, because Elaya’s bloody knickers be damned she couldn’t even _think_ about killing herself without getting Sinvik right up in her face, chiding her as if she was no more than a stupid child.

Sadja scoffed, and as if on cue, Sinvik turned, amber eyes finding her as she stared back at the Keeper with as much defiance as she could muster up. Sinvik’s light steps carried her backwards and she slipped a gloved right hand into the crook of Sadja’s arm.

Then she started walking, marching Sadja right along with her.

“I don’t know about you, Love, but I’m not going to be living in a dump for however long we’re stuck here. We’re going to be making money tonight.”

“How?” Sadja hated her hand where it sat. It squeezed gently as she pulled her closer, bumping her shoulder into her side and keeping her there.

“Tonight, we’ll start at the bottom of the ladder. Find us a crummy den filled with a choice pick of villains and beat them at their game.”

“Huh?”

Sinvik’s hand squeezed again. “Gambling. We’ll be gambling, Love. And we’ll be winning too, cross my heart.” **《《**

Sadja wove through the throng of misery that shuffled down the packed sidewalk. The revels of two nights past had come and gone, and what they’d left behind was a whole lot of litter, but very little cheer.

The city had quickly reverted to an uneasy routine. It woke early, slunk through its grey and dreary days, and then came to a troubled rest for the night. Much like her.

 _We fit right in,_ Sadja thought and sniffed at the cold, yet oddly stuffy air. She half expected the Beast to mock her from the hollows of her heart, but that bloody thing had decided to wrap itself in silence for the time being. Maybe it sat waiting for the right moment to pounce, to knock her off her game again when she least needed it. Or maybe it had gotten spooked. Spooked by the specter that had come to haunt them.

Her eyes flicked up and she scanned the people going to and fro. She hid behind the comforts of the _barr_ , and yet her shoulders felt tight as they pulled together with anticipation that she’d see him again. Maybe he’d wear a hat this time. A wide brimmed, fancy and frilly thing from below the Buckle maybe. Or maybe he’d have his beautiful, black locks tied atop his skull and he’d smile at her.

She shivered. Not from the cold, but the prospect of seeing the impossible Ceat walking the streets with her.

Impossible because the dead did not do any such things. They didn’t stand by the foot of her bed either, like he’d done this morning.

She’d dismissed him at first, of course. Dismissed him for a memory. A dream. Not an inherently bad one, because sometimes she remembered only his gentle voice and his bright smile and his warm hands in hers. But then she’d realised she’d been awake as she stared at him standing there, his eyes turned down towards her, strands of lightly curled hair dangling into his forehead.

She’d screamed. Picked up a pillow. Thrown it at him. Then she’d slid off the mattress lying on the floor and kept kicking her legs until her back collided with a wall. He’d vanished then. And she’d sat with her arms wrapped around her knees and tried to catch her heart before it could beat its way up her throat and take off through the window.

A few minutes later she’d tried to cut a few slices of bread with wildly shaking hands, and then he’d sat down across of her at the table and watched her as she’d tried to eat. Her appetite had taken a hike and she’d thrown the bread at him.

It had gone straight through him, of course, since he wasn’t really here.

Sadja bristled at the memory. She fiddled with the fabric of the _barr_ and tore her thoughts back to how her feet went forward, left and right and left and right and how she had to squeeze herself past a well dressed man with a fitted suit and a shiny pair of black shoes.

His ear was firmly attached to his talking gadget. His voice rose and fell, hurried along by his arm jabbing at the air. He almost knocked his elbow into her, and Sadja had to skip aside.

Everyone was in such a bloody rush here. At first, Sadja had thought it a side effect of the conflict somewhere out in the distance, but as the days passed she’d started to think that this was how life ticked here. You moved through it quickly, trailing a flimsical soul behind you as you went, and reduced the world around you to a blur.

Maybe that was why their souls were so frail, mere vapours drifting along Elaya’s sheltering hem. Sadja’s eyes skipped between the shoulders she had to navigate through. She frowned. No, she thought. It was the lack of predators. No Sare walked amongst them. No Cad’his preyed on their malleable selves, eager to string them along. No Reapers came to sniff them out.

They’d never had a reason to grow.

Which, Sadja had to admit, was just down right wonderful. They were so _quiet_ out there, even if she’d decide to walk without the _barr_ on her. There’d be a murmur lapping up against her gates, but it’d be muted, and she _liked_ it that way.

She also rather liked how it had made getting herself sorted out after her tumble into this world almost laughably easy. Right after she’d cleared her head of all the fear, of course. And those wayward thoughts of the Wasting eating away at whatever time she had left. Or the loneliness. And the anger. And all those other distractions that had her wallowing in self pity. That wasn’t how a Keeper acted. Fledgling or otherwise.

A swiped wallet here, a game of chance won there. That had been enough to get her started, and from there on all she’d had to do was find the professional racketeers that flourished in the turmoil of the city and, to quote the Keeper, beat them at their own game.

That her favourite place had marched her out last night was, admittedly, a little bit of a setback. They’d accused her of cheating, or at least that was what she’d gathered since she’d not understood a word of what they’d said. There’d been a lot of heavy staring though, and some coarse suggestions she figured, and then had come the subtle lifting of a few jackets to reveal mean looking guns. So she’d walked right out of there, leaving her winnings and her stakes behind.

Tosspots. The lot of them.

Sadja cracked a grim smile. Little did they know that messing with a thieving cunt that had too much time on her hands (and needed the distraction) was a terrible idea at the best of days. She looked up, scanned the shops along her right and found the one she’d been looking for. If tomorrow night was going to be a success, then she would have to equip herself accordingly.

Piss poor planning, and all that. Sometimes you had to think ahead a little, especially if you didn’t quite know what you were getting yourself into.

Sadja grabbed for the door and pushed through, having herself greeted by a shy little bell ringing her arrival. The place smelled fairly pleasant - clean metal and earth, and a hint of leather. Shelves packed with tools and rugged clothing ran the length of the room, and it was almost empty, too. A lone shopkeeper raised his head at her as she entered, then returned to sorting a shelf. Sadja decided that she liked the numb silence in here and took her time as she picked the gear for tomorrow.

 **O** n her way back out, the fledgling Keeper saw him cross the street ahead of her. Her knees locked. Her heart stalled. Her head numbed itself with a chilling fog that left her thoughts disorientated and altogether useless.

Ceat walked without concern between the steady flow of vehicles. No one cared to slow. No one cared to swivel out of the way. They brushed past him with a hairs width from knocking him over. Or some, her benumbed thoughts insisted, did just that. They clipped his long arms, slipped through his knobby elbows, and they ran right through his long, gangly legs.

Sadja’s heart returned to a stuttering rhythm, each beat its own private squeeze of pain. The Beast roused, too. It rattled its cage, and then howled with delight as she watched Ceat blend into the crowd once he reached the other side of the street.

Fourth time today, she counted miserably and stumbled down the short flight of stairs, away from the shop behind her. The gear she’d bought weighted heavily on her back, and as she craned her neck to look at her shoulder, she half expected him to perch atop of it.

She’d have liked to be able to explain him away. Find a good reason why her mind conjured him up, and why it was so damn insistent and detailed about it. But she couldn’t. He was an impossible figment. A symptom, maybe, the Wasting driving her insane? Whatever it was-  _he_ was- he wasn't helping. Made her skin itch, especially the mark of their union tattooed on her wrist. Right now, she'd have liked to scratch it off, skin and all.

Sadja pulled the _barr_ up to her chin, yanked her hat deeper over he ears, and walked with her eyes focused on the ground.

_Poppycock…_

* * *

 **D** ark shades tonight. A fitted shirt, simple sturdy trousers and an agile, slim jacket. Just right for the occasion, Sadja thought and grabbed the matching dark backpack she’d bought yesterday. She hoisted it onto her back and clicked the harness into place. Tonight was the night. The sort of night with a plan and purpose.

_Might even be fun. Who knows._

It’d definitely feel a whole lot better than staying cooped up in her crib with the impossible Ceat hovering around her.

She slipped out the door, threw a last glance at the dead man as he stood by the window at the other end of the room, and slammed the thing shut.

“Bye. Don’t wait up,” she growled to herself and headed for her target.

* * *

 **H** er _target_ took twenty minutes to get to. It was a squat building sitting at a bend of the river, nestled in-between two drab looking warehouses. Sadja knelt at the top of one of them. To her left, a ladder led to a rickety looking walkway halfway down. And further down still, and with a decent gap in the way, was the flat roof of the stash. Snow covered most of it, except the vents, which spilled warm air into the frigid night. If it wasn’t for those, one might have thought the place deserted, much like the warehouses at such a late hour. But it wasn’t. Two men were in there, and soon they’d be joined by a third. He’d be carrying her prize; the one they’d denied her three nights ago.

Tosspots, the lot of them.

Movement caught Sadja’s eyes. Headlights lit up the street, and a single vehicle rolled to a stop in front of the building. It idled for a while longer and she could hear loud, rhythmic booms of music all the way from up here. Sadja scrunched up her nose and tapped her fingers against the makeshift weapon resting in its equally makeshift scabbard at her left hip; a solid piece of heavy iron, wrapped in leather from tip to bottom, and a few rounds of tape for a handle.

She’d have preferred to find her sword there, but swords didn’t seem to be in fashion here. She’d looked. Thoroughly. All she’d found were bloody big knives with thick blades. Not like it mattered, since it didn’t seem fetching to go strut about the streets, day or night, with one of those strapped to her.

No, it wasn’t her sword, though when push came to shove it would probably do just fine. _And now stop stalling. Get off your lazy bum. Go-Go._

She slid around the ladder and carefully descended towards the walkway. She tried to be measured about. Calculated. The last thing she’d need was to slip on the snow or a patch of ice and make a racket. Or break something. Either or.

Once she got her feet down on the walkway, which gave a muffled rattle under a layer of snow, Sadja turned her eyes to her next obstacle. She inched towards the edge of the platform, climbed atop the railing, and then leapt across the gap towards the other roof.

More snow met her down below and she tucked herself into a roll just as she hit the roof. The momentum carried her back onto her feet, and a heartbeat later she was crouched by the door of the roof access.

Locked, as expected. But she’d cased the place the night before, so she knew it was a plain lock. Plain, much like a whole lot of other things here.

Sadja pinched her (yet again) makeshift lock-picks from her breast pocket and got to work. The frigid air made her fingers stiff, but the lock gave way regardless. She nudged open the door, strained her ears to listen, and slipped inside.

A short flight of stairs took her towards the top floor of the stash. It was dark up here and smelled dusty, unused. Barren rooms sat on her left and right. She ignored them and beelined for another set of stairs. Light spilled upwards from the bottom floor. Voices too, Sadja noted. It sounded like they were having a merry good time too, all laughs and cheers. Then again, no one ever said that scum wasn’t allowed to have a little fun. The more fun they had, truth be told, the less likely they’d be paying attention.

Sadja closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and nudged her gates open. She fled through a narrow gap, allowed her inquisitive soul room to stretch, and gave the hall below a tentative sweep.

_Clear._

Her gates still slightly ajar, Sadja hurried down the stairs. She quested for a third soul within the building. The courier, the one with her prize, the one that had come in from the night carrying what she hoped was a big enough haul to make even Sinvik blush. She found him down the hall, in the room farthest from her rooftop entrance.

When Sadja slipped through the door, he was busy kneeling by the safe, twisting the lock around. Then he pulled the heavy door open and lazily reached for the folders of currency lying next to him. Not suspecting a damned thing.

_Surprise._

Sadja slid her makeshift bludgeon from its scabbard. Crossed the distance between them. Lifted her arm and - _TWACK_ \- brought the thing down hard on the back of his head. Hard enough to knock him out, and if things went right for him not hard enough to do any permanent damage. It didn’t matter to her. Couldn’t matter.

He went down with a racket, and Sadja paused to listen. No concerned calls or hurried steps. Good. She dragged the roomy backpack off her shoulders, stuffed it with anything she could fit. Slabs of paper bills, folders filled with the same. She piled them in one after the other until she could barely get the thing closed any more. And just when she thought she was about compensated for her troubles, Sadja heard the footsteps.

_Crap._

Up the hallway he came, straight for the door. Straight for her. She closed the backpack, dragged it along with her and slid behind the table at the centre of the room. With her left hand she removed the makeshift baton from its scabbard again, with the right she clung to the pack.

He stopped at the threshold.

“Janos?”

Cloth rustled. Feet shuffled.

Sadja locked her jaw and adjusted her grip on the pack. Her heart beat steadily. No need for panic. No need to rush. Take your time. Listen. Wait.

He spotted the crumpled figure on the ground. His steps hurried.

Sadja sprang to her feet. She vaulted over the table, the pack flying with her as she swung it at the startled man. It hit him square in the face. He staggered into the wall behind him. She followed, slid off the table and swung the baton. His arm came up. To grab her. To slap her. To do _something_ , but she ducked below the grasping hand and slammed the steel into his hip. He cried out. His hand went for the sidearm at his belt. The baton came back around, cracked against his wrist. Then her knee snapped up into his groin.

He jackknifed forward, but before Sadja could follow through with a box against his head to send him sprawling onto the floor, a hard tug at her spine changed her mind.

She sidestepped, ducked. The room exploded with noise, displaced the air around her and shook her teeth. Two shots slammed into the space where she’d just stood, fired by goon number two stood in the doorway. His weapon tracked her and she threw the steel rod at him before he could fire again. He dodged it on instinct, shifted his shoulders and shuffled his feet. He didn’t dodge her though. Sadja followed the baton, slapped the goon’s gunhand wide, and leapt onto him. Her knees knocked into his chest, her free hand drove his head back, and the lot of them met the floor hard as they came down.

She didn’t wait around, swung off him and scampered back into the room where she’d left the pack. Last thing she needed now was to leave her prize behind. Make the whole night mean nothing.

Goon number one had recovered just enough to slink across the floor on his knees and grope for the sidearm that she’d knocked from his hand. He pointed, fired. Missed. She covered the distance with two light steps and kicked his chin.

“Just _quit_ ,” she hissed and snatched the pack from the floor. She swung it over her shoulder, felt the comforting weight that promised her success, pivoted about and— “ _Sadja…_ ”

Sharp, white pain flared behind her eyes. Sadja stumbled and turned, whipped her head around in search of the voice.

“ _Sadja, please…_ ”, Ceat pleaded as he lay broken on the floor. He reached for her, brilliant green eyes upturned and hopeful. Sadja hugged the pack to her chest, backed away, her throat dry and heart struggling to beat.

Then Ceat shot her.

She rocked back, felt the impact at her side, but not the pain. She saw his lips turn up in an ugly grin. Saw his eyes fall to the white of death. Saw her own death mocking her from where it lay on the ground, the barrel of a gun dancing after her.

The fledgling Keeper turned and fled.

* * *

 **C** eat sat at the raised edge of the bath. His hands rested in his lap, shoulders slightly hunched forward and head tilted to face her. She’d tried to get him to leave. She really had. But no matter the effort, he refused to budge. At first, she’d ignored him. Then she’d screamed at him. And then she went and held her breath under the warm water long enough to have her lungs burn for air. That too hadn’t helped. He still sat there, his clear green eyes staring down at her and his lips lifted with a tranquil smile. Persistent. More so than he’d ever been in life.

Infuriating.

She sunk deeper into the warm water, puffed at the white bubbles of foam.

“They’ve got the strangest songs here,” Sadja told the dead man. “Soft ones, loud ones, booming ones, ‘ruff ones. I… I think I like them. Some even sound like a winged Reaper is trying to sing. Bit disorientating. All wonky and wobbly like.”

She looked at him, flicked water at him. It went straight through.

“You’d have hated those.” Sadja tried to steel herself, tried to properly look at him without feeling like the very air around her had frozen and was squeezing her between unyielding layers of ice. He looked happy, almost. Content.

She frowned. “Though then again what do I know? We never talked about music. Never talked about much at all. Too busy keeping ahead of things. Staying all on the straight and narrow like good fuckin’ heroes. No time left for the little things.”

Sadja let her shoulders sink below the water and grimaced down at the mounds of white foam. So much for washing the edges off her frayed nerves. The hot bath had been meant to give her respite. Peace. Instead her heart had forgotten what it felt like to beat without painful effort, and every inch of her ached with a desperate need to cease being.

_Why can’t you just leave me alone…_

“Heroes, right. That’s what you thought we were. You were. I was.”

She looked back at him. “I suppose you’d be disappointed by now. If only you knew the things I’ve done. There’d be no end to the ranting.”

Her heart twisted. “You might even get mad. Can you imagine that? Ceat vil Marrk, flipped off his rocker. All foaming at the mouth and calling me names for the shit I’ve pulled.”

Her heart ached as the Beast slunk past it, raking its claws across it.

“Like last night, I’ve gone out and gotten myself shot—“ She sat up in the tub and lifted her left arm. The bullet had been slowed by the pack, and graced her just enough to tear a bloody nick into her side, third rib up. “—you shot me, actually. But don’t worry, it was worth it. See, I found this den. Right after I got here. They’ve got games and gambling there, and I swear shit ’s like nicking candy from a toddler here. ‘cept the toddler would probably put up a bigger fight.”

Sadja cupped some of the foam in her hands, puffed up her cheeks, and sent bubbles flying into the air. Then she sank back into the water, tried to get away from the chill that seemed to hover around Ceat, and ultimately her. “But then, I guess, they got tired of me winning. I think they thought I was cheating, though really I wasn’t. Not in the conventional way anyhow. They walked me out, them tosspots. Kept my stakes, too. So then, I followed their courier when he left after closing. He’s carrying all their money, see.”

She glanced at Ceat. He was still smiling. Still looked all happy. “Trailed him to their stash. Right by the river. Twenty minutes from here, if you’re quick about it. And since you won’t let me get any sleep, I spent the last two nights casing that sorry place.

"Yah, I know. ‘We’re not thieves, Sadja.’ That’s what you’d like to say, right? Well, it’s too late for that now. Picked the place clean yesterday night. Sure didn’t go down as smooth as I’d have liked, but whatever does?”

She blinked at him. He didn’t care much for her confession and didn’t seem inclined to get up and leave either. Frustrated, Sadja lifted a leg from the rolling clouds of foam and pushed her toes against one of the short levers worked into the wall on her right. The shower head spat icy cold water at her in response. The shock certainly didn’t make him go away, but it spurred her out of the tub. She climbed to her feet and stood under the steady stream of icy water, allowing her teeth to chatter and goosebumps to come racing along her skin.

Then she turned the thing off and swung her legs out of the tub. One of them went straight through the impossible Ceat, a reminder to herself that he was just a figment. A specter. No more.  

She padded across the bathroom, found her simple, dark red robe waiting on a hook on the wall, and wrapped it around her shoulders, not bothering to tie it. The wound on her side itched unpleasantly, but she tried to ignore it and focused on the soft cloth against her damp skin instead.

Had Ceat still been alive, he’d have worn a look of sincere disappointment on his handsome face by now. And that would have been it, Sadja knew. Quiet and stoic disappointment. That was the extent on how he’d express his feelings to her betrayal. For stealing. For not behaving. No foaming at the mouth. And certainly no demeaning names thrown at her.

Ceat the good-man. Ceat the Gentle.

Sadja bit her bottom lip, hard, and stared at her reflection in the mirror. He was standing behind her, hovering just a few inches from her shoulder. She could almost feel his breath on her neck.

“What else I have been up to?” she mocked herself while staring at the dead man in the mirror and beginning to hike the sleeves of the robe up as far as she could.

“Well, Redfield hasn’t come back, but I’ve been trying to get that communication-da-ching working. Its out of juice, but I think I found a cable for it today.”

As she talked her thumb flicked over the scar line reaching for her elbow. This was real. Ceat was’t. Her eyes cut up— not real, but still there. Sighing, Sadja picked up a rubber band from where she’d dropped it in the sink, and wrapped her wet hair into a knot.

“It’s been four days now,” she continued while she headed from the bathroom. By the time she reached the winding stairs, Ceat was already waiting for her at the bottom. She sucked in her bottom lip. Felt it pull down. Felt it quiver.

“He might have moved on. Maybe ran farther.” She padded down the stairs. “Or burrowed himself under a rock. Can’t blame him though, with that thick skulled noggin scrambled like it is. I’d do the same.”

Sadja stopped dead at the last step, looked at the dead man. Her voice had started breaking itself up her throat in miserably little murmurs. Not the stubborn quip she’d have liked.

 _”Did the same,”_ Ceat corrected as he watched her.

“Mh…” she agreed, before her fogged up mind tripped over the fact that she’d heard him. Her head snapped to him. Had that really been his voice? Was this what he’d sounded like? Silky. Gentle. Yet upbeat, a tremble of joy at the edge of her hearing.

She couldn’t remember.

A miserable whimper bubbled up her throat and Sadja stared at Ceat with his eyes now a milky white. Blood welled from his right temple. Sadja’s stomach twisted as the beast rattled its cage. She shivered, pulled the robe closed around her.

“Please,” her voice cracked. “Leave me alone…”

And if it hadn’t been for the harsh, demanding knock at her door, Sadja thought she might have dissolved into tears right then and there.

Her spine tingled and she straightened her back as her wayward thoughts came staggering back in. Sharp and clear and altogether alarmed. For a heartbeat she forgot about Ceat. This was last night catching up with her, wasn’t it?

Sadja let her feet carry her down the last step of the staircase, her eyes fixed towards the door. Definitely last night. There’d be a gaggle of goons outside, ready to shake her down and claim back what she’d taken. She looked towards the chestnut console standing by the door. The top right drawer held her working and loaded firearm, or at least what she thought to be working.

She exhaled slowly, nudged her gates open, and took a gander towards the— her teeth clicked shut and she scampered back into the confines of herself. Heat came racing after her. Angry heat. Confused. Pained. There were terribly ill-tempered flames hunkering out there, a furnace ready to burst. No ill intent though, she noted. Just a whole lot of familiar discord.

“Speak of the…” She looked towards Ceat, but found the room empty. Her brows rocked into her forehead and she puffed out a started _Huh_ before wandering over to the door.


	7. On the better side of Bad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sadja has herself singed by a walking Furnace. And we learn that Redfield can be a sneaky skunk who likes nicking eggs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is why the Archive Warning is in place, dear Reader. Please don't judge him. Or do.

**ON THE BETTER SIDE OF BAD**

* * *

  **S** adja tightened the belt around her waist and did the same with the grip on her inquisitive soul. “Sit,” she told it before she made for the door. No need to get burnt. Her evening had been shitty enough already, all things considered. The slight tremor in her core, the quake of her shoulders, they clung to her as a reminder of the impossible Ceat who’d left her to her own devices as Redfield stood on the other side of her borrowed threshold.

Another knock rattled against the door. Less determined this time, with just a hint of hesitation to it as it trailed off. A second-thoughts knock.

 _Let him stew then_ , she caught herself thinking, torn between wishing for company that wouldn’t remind her of her sins, and to hope he’d walk and grant her that moment of deceptive peace. She could pretend she wasn’t here, have him head back out into the frigid night.

Ceat was gone, after all. Off into the nether of things. Off to grant her a decent nights sleep, if she’d be so bloody lucky. A break from all the tossing about on the mattress. Of thinking it was too soft, too heavy, too warm and too sticky or too cold as it wrapped her in her own icy sweat pooling at her neck and drenching her chest.

Sadja sniffed at the air. Shivered. She needed rest. One night of sleep— or if she couldn’t have that, she’d settle for an eternity. That, she thought grimly, would take care of a whole lot of things. The Beast agreed, gnawing at its cage and letting out a delightful rumble as it presented her with one gruelling option after the other. The fledgling Keeper sighed, tried not to think of sharp knives or drops down tall buildings, and found herself standing with her hand raised to the chained guard at her door.

She hesitated.

Her stomach pinched with the anticipation of the unknown. Turned sour at the thought of strangers. Fluttered at the expectation of danger.

“Now then,” she whispered to herself. “Don’t you get too excited.”

She slid the chain free and unlocked the door.

Redfield spilled into her crib the moment she gave the door a tug inwards. Much like a sack of potatoes, really. A very tall, and very drunk sack of potatoes. Sadja took a step aside, gave him room to shuffle past.

The grubby coat was still on his shoulders. It had grubbied itself a little more in the past few days, its shoulders dusted with dirt and its hems soaked wet from melting snow and mud. The rest of him was not off much better.

A haggard looking stray, that one, Sadja thought and watched him get his bearings after the clumsy entrance he’d just had.

Look to the front, look to the left, look to the right - oh _there_ she was. Fogged up and stormy eyes locked onto her, the right one bloodshot and halfway to Hell. And with the stare came the biting heat, ever persistently knocking against her gates. She frowned. He was an even bigger mess than before.

She did hate it when she was right about things— like that a soul so broken would only fall apart more as it dragged itself along without anything to hold it together. And a man who turned to drink, that was no man who solved his own problems. Let alone fixed himself.

Sadja took a step forward. He shuffled back. A clumsy shuffle, dragging his feet over the ground. Jerky and clumsy.

_You scared of me, big boy?_

Her eyebrows came up and her lips twitched with the whisper of a smile. He met it with a tired scowl.

“Still don’t know if you’re coming or going?” She wove past him, shut the door, and slid the chain back in place. He watched her, scowl and all, then flinched as she reached up to pull the knapsack off his shoulders. Thing had gotten a bit lighter. Also grubbier, she concluded. She should just find a churning river somewhere, toss all of him in there. Clothes, boots, pack — all of it. Maybe that’d knock his head back together right, too.

She entertained the thought of seeing him turn over himself as foaming water flung him about, and dumped the pack on the floor.

That settled things at least, gave his whole entrance the finality he needed. He’d not be going anywhere. Except maybe further in, as it so were. Redfield’s feet went about their shuffling again, dragging all the grubby mess with him as he headed into her crib. A lost man looking just as lost in the confines of four walls as he’d liked have looked out there in the snow covered streets.

Sadja sniffed, lifted her right hand and pushed it flat against his chest before he marched a line of melted snow and sludge through her crib. _Marched_ being quite generous, considering the state of him.

Drunk off his arse or not, Redfield still proved himself quick at the uninvited touch. He snatched her wrist. Pulled the hand away, and an uncertain glare landed on her. Equally uncertain as the grip, she noted, greatly lacking any sort of conviction. She remembered the one from the bar, where she’d messed with his smokes. That one had been all down to business, not allowing any room for games.

“Boots,” she said and dipped her chin to indicate the floor. He blinked, followed her glance, and his lips twitched.

Frown, smile, she couldn’t tell. It seemed difficult to do on that man. Sadja tried to pull away and he twisted her wrist just enough to discourage her.

“You have issues, Redfield.” _And are being an ungrateful Oaf, if I may just say so._

He didn’t care a lick about what she had to say though, was too busy staring at her right arm to listen. The mess of scar tissues snaking itself around her biceps, to be more precise. Once a torn and frayed landscape of gashes, the imprints of the _voidmite_ shackles had healed well since Sinvik had removed them. It still looked all ate up though, Sadja thought. And it was definitely still good to give little kids a scare.

Redfield though? He seemed more intrigued by it than startled, him not being a little kid and all. He’d even gone out of his way to tap a calloused finger along the lowest of her scars, the one that dipped close to her elbow. It traced the worst of the knotted line, where the metal had sliced deepest. The touch was gentle in comparison to the grip. It tickled. Sadja curled her fingers into a loose fist.

“Occupational hazards,” she interrupted his study. Another scowl, but he wasn’t quite done. His gaze skipped from her elbow, up her arm and along her shoulder. It stopped dead at her collarbone, where it sat longer than necessary and reminding her that she’d answered the door while being just barely decent.

That she’d invited something raw and simple to come prowling at her gates was hardly a detail she could blame on him. Didn’t mean she needed to like it. Quite the contrary, in fact. Sadja’s hackles rose and it took effort to curb the urge to set him straight. Or down on the floor, as she so liked to think.

 _Not a threat,_ the fledgling Keeper reminded herself and slowly grabbed for his hand to pry it off her wrist. That chased off the prowling and needy thing too, and his heavy lidded gaze snapped up. He released her and went straight for his boots. Swayed a bit. She almost thought he’d tip over.

Much to her disappointment, he didn’t.

* * *

   

> ❛ **_Day 13_ **
> 
> _The couch is awfully comfortable. And I like the view. Can’t hold a candle to the spires of Carran, but it has got charm. The lights at the bottom are scarce, and when the sky is clear, the twinkling stars in the sky are plenty. And yeah, the couch is nice. Good too, ‘cause Redfield got my poor excuse for a bed again. He looked like he needed it. Feels like a miracle that he even made it all the way up here. Probably didn’t walk. Took that box thing that goes up and down. Which I don’t like still— who in their right mind goes up and down that many floors without their feet on some solid set of stairs?_
> 
> _Lunacy._
> 
> _Anyway: Drunk off his arse he was. And raunchy as they come. But I let him in anyway, and then couldn’t find it in me to kick him back out._
> 
> _Still not surprised about that. No, not that I didn’t kick him out, but that prowler stalking around me like a fox around a chicken coop._
> 
> _Rob a man of reason and complex things to worry about, and you’re left with the simple things. The basic things. Instinct. It all boils down to a very few things. Warm shelter, food to stuff the belly with, and a skirt to climb up when the fancy strikes._
> 
> _Could have been worse. He listened at least, went upstairs like a good lad when I told him to sleep it off._
> 
> _Didn’t bother saying goodbye next morning either. Did bother nicking some of my food while I was still nappin’ though. Cheeky bugger left me missing eggs and bread and cheese and whatnot. Hadn’t pegged him the stealthy type._
> 
> _Good news though: I got some sleep, right? Not going to say it was the best I ever had, but it’ll do._
> 
> **_Day 14_ **
> 
> _Poppycock. Fuck’s sake._
> 
> _Got myself seen by one of them goons from the stash. Figured this town big enough, but no Sir, he had a good long look at me and chased me halfway ‘cross to the crib._
> 
> _That cunt._
> 
> _Guess I’ve overstayed my welcome. Time to move on._
> 
> **_Day 15_ **
> 
> _Headache. Pounding. Ceat won’t quit. Elaya help me…_
> 
> **_Day 16_ **
> 
> _Right close to the crib there’s a place where people come and go. Great, long metal beasts carry them to and fro, with baggage big and small. Place is also crawling with armed men, rifles slung over their chests and all mean and steady glares for the rest of the folks. Figured if I’d leave that’s where I’d start. But where to go? Where do them noisy carts end up?_
> 
> _Maybe they go somewhere warm. That’d be nice._
> 
> _And maybe Ceat will just stay here._
> 
> _…_
> 
> _A fledgling Keeper can hope, right?_ ❜

Night had fallen hours ago, but sleep? Not so much. Sadja yawned and buried her face into the folded back cuffs of her cotton plaid shirt in its deep reds and light browns. The thing was a multitude of sizes too big, reaching all the way down to her knees and letting her tuck her hands comfortably into the sleeves. Once the yawn passed, she returned to the task(s) at hand. ❛ _**Day 17** ,_ ❜ she wrote, then struck that right through and replaced it with ❛ **_Day 18_** ❜. Midnight had come and gone an hour ago.

Her eyes flickered back and forth between her journal and Redfield’s communication-da-ching, unable to decide where to settle while her heart hammered weakly in her chest. Exhausted. Drained. Ready to stop without a moment’s notice because it couldn’t take it any more. She sighed, rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand, and bit back another yawn.

The gadget. The thing. Sadja tried to focus on it, get her mind excited about something new and intriguing. It was definitely doing _something_ , had been since she’d pushed one of the button on its case. A light had flashed at the top. Then flashed some more, and now as she craned her neck at it in an attempt to find the activity thrilling, it decided to come alight in a whole lot of green nothing. Boring. So she tilted her chin away, decided to go back to writing, when  _boring_ bit her in the rump. Sadja almost let out a yelp when the gadget started buzzing violently, like a fat wasp trashing on the kitchen counter. At the same time words filled the screen, whole sentences streaming upwards, pushing the others out of the way as they scrambled for attention. Too quick for her to read too, and Sadja was quite the quick reader.

Eventually they stopped wrestling each other off into nothing, and one line remained: _”… you are alright. Please, please CALL /Claire”_

“Huh.” Sadja nudged the gadget with the tip of her pen. It started spinning gently. “People be missing you, Redfield. So what’s with the drinking yourself senseless and the sticking your head under a rock?”

She tapped against the gadget, swiped it up and down and left and right, but it refused to cooperate. Locked, she figured. Bugger if she knew how. Thumbprint, maybe? She’d watched folks unlock theirs by swiping across or tapping on the screens. Sadja sniffed and returned the pen to the journal. Another time then.  

> ❛ _Good news: Got the gadget working._
> 
> _Bad news: He’s not leaving me alone._ ❜

She looked up. Ceat wasn’t _sitting_ across of her at the kitchen counter, but he might as well have been. The whole room swam with his presence, pulled the walls closer to her and threatened to trap her. Her throat tightened. With a flick of her wrist, she closed the journal and then stuffed the pen into her mouth.

She swung her legs off the chair, padded barefooted across to the magnificent thing that kept food and drinks all fresh and nice. It opened with a swish and she went straight for a bottle of _pivo_.

“Just one,” she promised herself. It’d be better then, wouldn’t it? A little, at least— not enough to lull her to sleep. Certainly not anywhere near enough to give her weary heart a rest.

But even as she was about to snap off the cap and begin to drown herself in the tart drink, her door gave a shudder, followed by a knock.

_Rap-rap-pause-rap._

The second-thoughts knock.

“Really?” She asked the empty place, pen bobbing up and down in her mouth. Another yawn threatened to crack her jaw wide open. She stifled it, barely, and glared toward the door. “You’ve got to be joking.”

Another knock followed. This time less _still-thinking-about-it_ and more _right-about-now_.

Sadja tucked her shoulders forward and carried her _pivo_ to the entrance. Her free hand flew up, unlocked the door, cracked it ajar just enough so she could glare daggers at Redfield.

“Listen, I’m not a—“ _wayside refuge_ didn’t quite make it as her words trailed off and the daggers blunted themselves right quick.

Grubby coat. Right eye still slightly bloodshot. Miraculously trimmed beard for once… and half a face and shoulder covered in blood.

Sadja slid the chain aside, nudged the door open fully. Redfield hesitated. He looked her up and down, then down and up, and gave no indication that he was going to move.

“In,” the fledgling Keeper said and pushed the _pivo_ bottle at him. He took it, more on reflex than choice, and she snatched a fistful of his coat to drag him across the threshold with. She slammed the door behind him, watched him twitch at the loud noise, and then turn his attention to clumsily start working his boots off. One at a time. And with great difficulty, too.

A sad giggle rolled in her stomach, made it halfway up her throat before she slammed the lid on it.

“You’ve got your priorities all backwards, Redfield. Come on.”

She led him towards the kitchen counter— _Oh bugger…_ —and veered off towards the stairwell as she remembered his gadget still sitting in plain sight there.

“Let’s get you looked at, mh?”

Up the stairs they went, one careful step at a time, until she steered him to the right and into the bathroom. He steered quite well, not once griping or trying to wander off. He even sat without complaint as she tugged on his coat to get him to plant himself on the edge of the tub.

A very much agreeable sack of potatoes, she decided.

“You smell like a brewery again,” she informed him and placed one knee on the edge of the tub, while peering at his head. The pen dropped from her mouth and she slid it into her chest pocket.

“I can make a good guess when you’ve last showered, but when’s the last time you were properly sober?”

A weary sigh was all she got for an answer.

The fledgling Keeper grabbed his chin and tilted his head towards her. It wasn’t difficult to spot the wound. The previously stitched gash on his forehead had been ripped open. And then some, she figured. It was bleeding freely. Fresh, then.

Sadja sniffed. She hated stitches. They had shelters for the sick and injured here, didn’t they? Some sort of infirmary or hospice. Were those too bloody good for him?

“Jolly good, you’ll live. I think. Now clean up. I’ll be back in a tick to give you a good stitching. Though don’t expect to enjoy it much.”

She climbed to her feet. He did too, _pivo_ still grasped in one hand. It was open now. Cheeky plock had twisted the cap off. Somehow. Sometime.

Sadja seized the bottle when he made a motion to drink from it, but the bleary look he threw her in response made her almost hand it right back to him. Poor sod.

She rolled her eyes at the both of them and placed the bottle on the sink by the mirror. When she turned he hadn’t moved. Vacant eyes looked straight through her. There likely wasn’t a single gear turning in his skull, she thought. Just a whole lot of potatoes sitting about lazily, as that was what potatoes did. Sadja frowned.

“Right,” she muttered, stepped up to the sack of potatoes and snatched the ends of his sweater.

“Don’t get the wrong idea now, big boy,” she warned him and pulled the bloody thing up his torso.

Tall. He was one tall oaf. She had to stand at the tips of her toes to get the thing over his head, and even then she barely managed. It didn’t help that no matter how hard she tried to keep her distance, she could still feel the warmth radiating off him. Like a welcoming furnace standing in an otherwise frigid hollow. A hollow that she’d spent too much time in, allowing her bones to freeze, ready to crack and splinter into shards of ice.

It was a deceptively comfortable heat, Sadja decided, carrying a promise of strength tucked away in a hidden reserve. It taunted her shamelessly beyond her gates.

 _Come steal me,_ it said. _Borrow me. He won’t mind._

She swatted the thought away, blamed it on her tired body and her failing heart. No matter her effort at keeping her soul tethered close, it still did what it could to scrounge up whatever scarps of energy might be floating about within reach. If she took from him, she thought, he’d probably fall over dead. Even just nicking a bit might mean she’d take it all.

She stifled another yawn, still pulling at the clothes, and Redfield let out a startled grunt.

 _Ooops.._ She’d pulled the clothes right over the wound.

“Like that, see.” Sadja stepped back, the bloody and decidedly smelly sweater in her hands. “Clean up. Water. On head. Go.”

Her head tried to swivel over towards the door and her feet were just about to start trekking there, when her eyes got themselves caught on Redfield, and things started making a little more sense.

Sadja bunched the clothes together. She tilted her head, let out a quiet _huh_ and neglected the fact that staring was rude.

The man was covered in bruises, after all, and that tickled the fledgling Keeper’s curiously. Each one of the dark marks held the potential for an interesting story, and Sadja loved a good story as much as she enjoyed shamelessly gawking. Who didn’t? He’d certainly ogled at her arm long enough, so she was just returning the favour.

The main attraction on his battered body were fading imprints of something very heavy having slammed into him. They stretched across a taut chest shadowed by coarse hair.

A bull, she decided as she made things up as she went. Literally, as her feet started carrying her around him. A bull had knocked him over, and then it had rammed its head into his left side. It was worse there. By all means she’d think he’d have his ribcage crushed considering the picture she started assembling in her wandering mind.

The otherwise chiseled muscles under the lacerations seemed swollen and tender. Not healing well at all. More bulls, Sadja nodded to herself. Very angry bulls.

Either way, malicious bovines having messed him up or not, nothing on him was for show. There was a purpose to every well tended muscle group, to the broad set of shoulders and the thick arms.

He’d knock the air out of you with a tackle and snap you in half right after, she figured. A warrior more than a soldier, one that wouldn’t kid around once he had you cornered.

And corner you he would, if him chasing her through that alleyway and up that stairwell was any indication. He’d been quick on his feet, and that had been in full gear, carrying heavy murder on his shoulders.

 _Little bit of a threat then,_ Sadja admitted while her feet carried her around him in a tentative and inquisitive circle, eyes registering one bruise after the other. On-top of the blacks and blues sat a long gash just below his right shoulder. It was stitched professionally, the healing coming along slowly, but by no means well. Much like the bruises. How he spent his days and nights certainly wasn’t helping. Her mind picked at the mystery. The wounds looked just old enough to match up with when she’d arrived. After he’d almost shot her dead.

_Not just grumpy then, Redfield. You’ve been through a meat grinder, haven’t you? And then it spat you out and now you’ve lost your way. Is that why you’re such a puzzle? All scattered and busted?_

Sadja continued her quiet circle around him, and remembered the pieces that she’d touched. _That grinder didn’t leave you with much, did it? Bits that don’t fit. Bits missing. Bits broken._

The fledgling Keeper could fix that, she mused. A _Cad’his_ could work that puzzle. One slice at a time, fit them back together. Make him whole again, or something resembling it at least. She’d seen it done. She’d also seen it fail, seen the wailing and slobbering mess it could turn into. Forcefully binding a soul back together was a tricky thing… especially without a _Medica_ to fix all those rips and tears in places that Sadja barely understood. A soul was one thing — the body that held it another. One was nothing without the other, so to leave one broken meant the other wasted away along with it. Eventually.

Her musing was about to send her on a third trip around him, but Redfield had enough of being orbited. He lifted a hand to stop her, and rested it gingerly against her side. More warmth radiated from it, snuck through her skin and took up residence without having been invited in. Though this time around the warmth was quickly followed by another assault at her gates. Primal and simple need sat at the helm and prowled about her trying to find a way through.

She slapped the hand away. “Don’t bleed out on me while I’m gone.”

The prowler sodded off.

Once downstairs, Sadja hurried with switching off the gadget and cramming it into the back of one of the kitchen drawers. She admitted to a moment of weakness there, wondering just how he’d react if he knew she had it. Would he recognise it? Would he care? Would it _help_? She slammed the drawer shut.

_We’re not going to find out tonight._

Next she grabbed a box of emergency necessities stashed under the kitchen island and hauled it onto the counter.

There were rules to being a Keeper. Fledging or not. Rules of engagement, really. A trip to la-la land or whatever hot-zone the Cataract threw you into was likely to kill you if you decided not to follow them. The Pariah disagreed vehemently, of course. He only had One Rule, and a few borrowed practices. Rule four, on the other hand, even he agreed to; Have an emergency kit. The Keeper walks where danger lurks, and if he gets sliced and diced he should at least be able to glue some of it back together.

Soon after she’d settled in her crib, Sadja had broken into a place that had looked like it might have what she needed, and grabbed what looked like the right stuff. _Looked like_ and _smelled like_ , being the keywords of that particular venture.

Sadja twisted the cap off one of the bottles from her kit and gave it a sniff. Smelled about right, all disinfect-y. She gathered the bottle, a few packaged swabs, a scissor, and the readily attached thin thread and hooked needle. The pile earned itself an unhappy glower.

This was going to suck. He should have gone to a bloody infirmary.

On her way up the stairs, Sadja paused and threw a look towards her couch. The _barr_ lay draped over the back of it. Her shoulders squared and she sniffed. He’d caught her off guard a few times, had proven quite aptly that his presence wasn’t as meek and easily wrangled into submission or deflected as the rest of them.

Impressive? Maybe. A little. A wee, budding bit.

On the other hand, the _barr_ would reduce her to whatever strength her sleep deprived body might have left tonight. No _barr_ then.

Upstairs, Redfield had sat down again. He didn’t look up as she came in, but stayed hunched forward with his elbows resting on his knees. The _pivo_ bottle she’d forgotten in the room was being passed back and forth in his hands. It was half empty.

_Fuckin’ drunks._

Sadja straddled the tub’s edge next to him, placed her bundle of things into her lap. Then she snatched the bottle from his hands and rolled it into the tub. It bubbled up the rest of its contents, and he watched it all go with a confused pinch to his brow.

“Chin up, Redfield.”

He tore his eyes away from his last hope dripping down the drain, and complied by staring at the ceiling instead. Sadja grabbed his head between her hands. His hair was a damp mess, but he’d cleaned most of the blood off.

“I’m not very good at this,” she warned him and met his hazy blue eyes. “So I suggest you stay still. Very, very still.”

“Okay,” he said, and Sadja felt her lips twitch into a quick smile. _Fancy that, he speaks!_

First she snatched one of the packaged swabs and wrenched it open with her teeth. Then she screwed the cap off the bottle, sincerely hoping it was disinfectant, and covered the swab with a generous amount of it. His eyes tracked her every move, but showed no signs of concern — or much of anything else really. She tilted his head to the side and began swabbing fresh blood from the wound. A quick intake of air told her that it probably stung a bit.

“So, what was it? Hit your head on your way out of the pub?”

“No.”

“A good old fashioned scuffle then?”

He nodded.

“Let me guess. I should see the other bloke?”

Another nod, barely registering on the nod-scale this time around.

“Good man,” she encouraged him while giving the wound one last careful dab before tossing the bloody swab into the sink. Needle and thread came next.

“At least they come threaded,” she commented as she tore the package open. “Would take me forever otherwise.”

He turned his head slightly, but found her neckline more interesting than the single needle and light blue thread she was about to stick him with. Sadja grabbed his chin again, squeezing tightly, and forced his head to the side. He grunted with a hint of frustration and tensed his grip around the edge of the tub.

“Now is when you hold still,” she reminded him and carefully positioned the needle against the wound. He was holding still, alright. When she sent the needle through the first time he twitched. The second time he just inhaled sharply as she worked metal and thread through him.

Sadja grimaced at her handiwork after stitch number three. _You suck,_ she chided herself and went for round number four.

“I’ve been thinking about getting out of here.” Might as well fill the silence, she figured. Maybe test the waters while she was at it. “Go somewhere else. Not sure where yet, maybe anywhere will do. Though someplace warm would be nice. What about you?”

Silence.

“You enjoying your stay here that much?”

More silence.

“Don’t you want to go home?”

“No,” he rasped.

“Fair enough. Any other ideas? Maybe some far flung places that’d be nice this time of year?”

“No.”

Sadja frowned and gave stitch number five— almost done —a little more sting than necessary, then dabbed at the wound with a bit more pressure than called for. He grunted and gripped the tub a little tighter still.

“You’re no fun, Redfield.”

Stitch number six was the last, and Sadja let out a relieved sigh as she knotted the end and cut the thread.

“Good as new. Well, almost. It might scar handsomely though.” She tossed the rest of the swabs and spent needle into the sink too.

“Now, repeat after me,” Sadja taunted and grabbed his chin to turn his eyes up. He’d been resting them on her collarbone again, and she could really do without all the desperate thrashing against her gates. It was distracting.

“Thank. You.”

His eyebrows came up, but eventually he found his voice and offered a slurred “Thank-you”. It was strung together half heartedly and as sincere as a tax-mans apologies for robbing you blind. But it’d do.

Sadja gathered the leftover kit in her lap and moved to get to her feet — not getting very far as she did.

Redfield clamped a hand onto her nape.

The grip was far removed from gentle, and closed tighter as she shied away instinctively. His other hand grabbed her knee, pulled her closer across the edge of the tub.

Sadja snapped her arms up. Shoved him onto the floor. Or she smashed the bottle over his head. Put their skulls to the test, maybe, find out which one was tougher.

Except she didn’t do any of those. She froze.

Lighting struck her spine, wrapped itself around her and rendered her limbs useless. An electric buzz numbed her head. Filled her head with static.

His thumb pushed her chin up and to the side. He leaned into her, pressed his lips against her throat. Warm lips. Dry lips. Clumsily demanding things that weren’t his. When he tilted his head to find some other place for his mouth to be at, she felt the stubble on his chin. It sliced at her skin. Coarse and sharp. Like sandpaper grinding away at her.

Every warm exhale of air against her cold skin ripped her thoughts away along with them. They fled down her neck and shoulders. The puffs of air. Not her thoughts. Or those too, she couldn’t bloody tell. Couldn’t. Anything.

A noise bubbled from her throat. Or his, maybe. A groan or a growl or a desperate want for air and things that they weren’t allowed. Like reason. She wasn’t allowed reason. It went somewhere, out of reach. She didn’t know where to, just that it spun off with her head.

Then he traced a greedy line down her collarbone and she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t hear a thing past the rush of her blood as her heart beat frantically.

No.

This wasn’t right.

Not her heart.

It didn’t ever roar so deafeningly loud.

This wasn’t _her_.

 _Shit…_ Sadja’s eyes snapped wide open.

She’d not been looking. She’d not paid attention. She’d had her back turned to him, her own heart weakly bumping in her chest. Her guard down. Her gates up, but untended. And he’d come crashing right through. Barrelled over her gates as if they’d been made of wet paper, and wrestled her off her otherwise sturdy footing, left her reeling around herself and spiralling up with him. Or down with him. Somewhere. Everywhere. With him.

She could barely tell them apart. An overwhelming presence layered itself into hers, driven by a desperate need that spilled into her like wildfire. A hint of her here, an overbearing mountain of him there, the absolute wrong way around. 

She fought for some resemblance of control, tried to pick them apart. Find out who was who. What was what, and why it was okay that he pulled her along with him when he stood and moved into the tub. Or why it was perfectly fine that he gave up trying to work the buttons on her shirt, and decided to just force them apart instead.

They pinged off the walls and floor. Tumbled down that mountain. Like her. There was fire waiting there, at the foot of it. A sea of it. Liquid flames. Hungry.

 _Not okay,_ a tiny voice quipped at the back of her head. It might have had more to say, but quickly shut up the moment he found the shower valve and let the water run scalding hot. Might not have been the water. Might have been his lips that found her throat again.

Or all of him as he snatched her off her feet.

He lifted her with laughable ease, wrapped her legs around him and dragged her hands behind his neck. The sharp scent of blood, sweat and disinfect filled her nose. She tried to care, but couldn’t.

His lips returned, and his hands roamed freely until they fastened around her midriff. The last of her roots snapped, and as she was tossed about, Sadja found her way up into clarity.

She surfaced from the rolling waves, treaded hard against the current trying to drag her back under.  Her thoughts were her own up here. She clung on to them. Sorted them. Found the warmth of him against her. Found herself craving the not-cold. Found herself not minding, even if the angry lashes of his broken soul burnt her. So, for now, she'd give what he wanted. They both needed; a stranger for comfort, with no consequence. No meaning. 

One last greedy gulp of air, and Sadja let the torrent of liquid fire tear her down. She let him drive into her with unbearable need. Let his hands hold her hips in a vice grip. Let him press her back against the shingled wall behind her. Let each thrust slide her markings into the edges, which might as well have been made of broken glass. But who was to say they weren’t, down here where bolts of pain arched down her spine. Her markings protested the treatment, and each muffled gasp of pain from her drove him on.

He scorched her nerves, cornered her. Chased her. She fled. He followed. Swept her forward into terrible, jagged cliffs. She ached. She hurt. Or was that him, too? Of course it was him. Must be him. His muscles were failing. Tendons straining, cuts stringing viciously. A map of pain, though she really wasn’t sure which landmark belong to him, which one to her.

The only thing she knew for certain was that this was _her_ fault. All of it. Except now. Not now. But yesterday, and the day before— the weeks, the eternity of suffocating darkness.

Everything that had ever gone wrong in his life was, without doubt, singularly her fault. He blamed her for his weakness, the pain, the anger, the disgust he felt for every breath he took. She was the impossible scapegoat and not a single gentle thought was wasted on her.

Yet he wouldn’t let her go. One arm slid between the wall and her back, and a hand settled on her neck. _Couldn’t_ let her go. If he did, he’d be the one to blame. Calloused fingers tightened around her nape, harsh breaths rushed along her neck.

Blame for what? She didn’t know. He didn’t know. They didn’t know, and they hurt to know, hurt to see through the fog, to feel something that wasn’t a dull ache between their hearts. Wanted not to drown.

But they did when the liquid waves of fire threw him against the waiting cliffs. They shattered them apart again. Broke them in half. They scattered the rage, too. The loathing. The hatred. And then the fire rolled away, snuffed out between two of her heartbeats. The real one. The one in her chest. The one stuttering and limping. And when the haze lifted, and she was left singed, but whole, she found a different, familiar and shy creature sitting in the wake of his sin; Guilt.

Sadja ground her teeth. This was going to hurt.

His knees buckled. Whatever strength he’d had left extinguished. Sadja’s back cracked against the tub’s edge and her elbow slammed into the one on her right.

The “ _Y_ _ouch_ ” she squeezed through her clenched teeth did _not_ do the experience justice, but it was all she could do all things considered.

Water still splashed down on them — warm, not scalding hot like she’d thought — and Sadja rightened herself just in time to catch a swaying Redfield as the arm he tried to hold himself up with gave way. His head would have connected with the wall, and she couldn’t let him ruin her perfectly horrible stitches…

She gathered her knees below her and wrapped an uncomfortably shaking right hand around his neck trying to keep him upright. His breathing was irregular, laboured. And even though he was no longer setting her soul on fire, Sadja could still feel shy pressure pushing against her.

There it was. Guilt. Shame. A whole lot of both. Whether they were directed at her, at what he’d just done, she couldn’t tell.

‘ _Can’t tell much of anything lately, can you? You’re terrible.’_

But there it was regardless; That brief flutter of hope in the pit of her stomach. Best not to think about it, draw the curtains on it and revisit it later. Preferably while dressed. And dry. Guilt was quite a common thing, after all, no reason to get all excited and think it had anything to do with the Cataract’s cryptic mission. She could also be furious later. Once she decided if she should blame him.

Redfield strained to lift his head. His eyes barely managed to focus into her general vicinity and his lips moved without much purpose.

“I…,” he started and Sadja flicked her fingers through his wet hair.

“You’re a bit of a bother,” she interrupted. “And you almost ruined my beautiful stitches.”

He winced and lifted a hand to clumsily grope for the freshly stitched gash on his forehead. Blood was seeping from it, but the thread held firm. Sadja swatted the hand away.

“Want to get out of here?” She tried to pull her shirt together and found two heroic buttons that still clung on with tiny strings. She worked them closed. He nodded, and Sadja wondered just how long it would take her to get a tired sack of potatoes out the tub and through two doors.


	8. Riptide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guilt comes to rattle Redfield's world and he forgets a name. We also learn a little more about Sadja, about her past, and how those gates in her mind were made. And why.

**RIPTIDE**

* * *

**》》** **A**  blazing sun bled deep reds and twilight blues across the oily black city.

Dusk _should_ have brought relief from the stagnant heat. Should have allowed for some level of comfort within its tightly packed alley ways, instead it only made things a little darker and left behind scalding hot stone. No breeze found its way across the tall walls either, and so the air remained stuffy and thick. A breeze, Sadja had thought as they’d wandered the streets, was all this place needed. Strong winds carrying heavy rain would have been even better, but she’d settle for a simple puff of air. Without one, the alleys continued to stink and the walls kept sweating and boiling all through the night. Much like her, really.

Her skin was damp with sweat. The shirt she’d put on in the morning had turned itself from loose and airy to clinging tightly to her chest. Her scalp itched. Her _everything_ itched, though she really didn’t want to think about that too much.

Sadja sighed, ran a hand across the unfamiliar short crop of hair, and gave her skull a quick scratch. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so cross with the Keeper when she’d taken scissor and razor to her head. Maybe she should have been just a little grateful, instead of cursing her around Hell a hundred times, while she chopped away and gave it a finishing shave.

_Maybe._

She still hated Sinvik for it, of course. Hated her for the quickness to her. The nonchalance of her care. That stupid, _understanding_ in her eyes. Like she knew. Knew it all. Like they were one.  

Sadja allowed herself a shaky breath and looked up at the woman who’d saved her life without having been given permission to. Sinvik hunkered across of her, feet planted on black rock, shoulders hunched forward. Her skin was flushed from the heat, much like Sadja’s. Her long, dark hair glistened with sweat and had plastered itself to her scalp in a rather unflattering manner. Even the dusting of freckles clustered around the top of her nose looked a little angry with all the heat and exertion-

Exertion? Sadja’s brow pinched and she tried to glare at Sinvik. Why’d the Keeper look all tired? It was her who was being tormented here, not the other way around.

As if she was reading her mind, and eager to continue with the torture, Sinvik’s hand darted forward and snatched the _barr_ from her neck.

“Do better,” she taunted, not giving her a chance to react.

Sadja ground her teeth together and did as she was told. She began with imagining the tall wooden gates. They stood in her mind, two wings locked tight by a heavy bolt, just as Sinvik had drawn them for her. She’d spared no detail on paper, and on her behest Sadja had memorised each swirl and curve, and placed them carefully on the gates she’d built in her mind. The wood was beautifully grained, a pattern rivalling any carvers artificial handiwork. The metal reinforcing the gate’s wings were there too, spreading from the centre like the fanned feathers of a peacock's wide spread tail.

 _”Voidmite.”_ Sinvik had told her with one of her insufferable short smiles as she tapped against one of the lines with the tip of the pencil.

After Sadja had finished erecting the gates and furnishing them with detail, she’d added colour to the original black and white. Ashen browns for the wood, matted dark grey for the voidmite. Now she stood in front of them for the third time in an unpleasant row. They were locked, the bolt thrown shut. Beyond them, Elaya’s hem --the Verge-- waited.

All she now had to do was crack them open. Take a peek outside, let herself slither through.

Tip of the finger, end of the tail. No more.

Sadja pictured herself grabbing onto the heavy bolt; slid it free from its lock, and then gave the left wing of the gate a careful and calculated nudge. It swung open wide, like it had done the last two tries. And like before, the Verge yanked her soul out, like a riptide dragging her into a wide open ocean. An ocean made of molten rock.

Sadja jackknifed forward, caught herself with outstretched hands, and promptly collapsed onto her right shoulder as one ruined arm gave way. The world tilted as she fell. It refused to stop its wild spin, even as she lay on her back, mouth agape and limbs numb and useless. Voices screeched at the edge of her awareness. Things dark and bright alike tugged at her soul. Everything garnered for her attention. Needed her to listen. Needed her to understand.

It was all too much. She couldn’t sort through it. Then the Verge denied her the right to be again, met her outside her gates with a vengeance that sliced her soul to bleeding ribbons.  

 _”HELP ME!”_  Sadja thought she screamed.

But instead of the soothing calm of the _barr_ wrangling her soul back into place, the beast sprung from the pit of her stomach. It leapt through the flames, baring teeth and claws alike and tore into the world with glee. It didn’t care about the heat, or any gates she tried to keep between it and everyone and everything that had done them wrong.

And even as the fire was extinguished, the beast rampaged on.

“Stop,” the Keeper hissed into her ear.

Sadja’s mouth worked soundlessly as she tried to draw in breath. Her left hand was dragging uselessly against hot rock, and her feet kicked against thin air. A weight rested on her shoulder blades, and Sadja realised she lay with her cheek pressed to the floor. Sinvik had twisted her around, bent her right arm behind her back, and kept her pinned to the ground.

It seemed the beast had tried to climb right up to Hell — and had attempted to go straight through the Keeper on its way there. Sadja hoped it had gotten in at least one good swing… or maybe a few scratches. Maybe she’d turn around and see she’d broken Sinvik’s nose. That’d be a laugh. For a little while, at least.

Sadja ceased her pointless wiggling beneath the Keeper, and in turn Sinvik allowed her back her breath.

“We’ll have to cage that, won’t we, Love?” She might as well have been cooing that up there. And why did she have to sound so amused? This wasn’t fun. Not in the slightest.

The weight on her back lifted, and Sadja rolled onto her back. She closed her eyes, not wanting to look at Sinvik just yet, and focused on the hot stone beneath her, heated by the day’s worth of the sun relentlessly beating down on it. She focused on her breathing. On her gates. On them being closed. Tightly shut, with the bolt thrown over, and nothing, _nothing_ coming through.

**》》**

**S** adja kept a steady pace as she jogged along the frozen river. She’d been at it since daybreak, though judging by the weak gleam of the early morning sun, day wasn’t about to make any headway anytime soon. The poor thing looked defeated already as it hid behind the dirty clouds. Sadja half expected it to go slinking back below the horizon to go have a good cry.

To be fair, what was it expected to do against the low, heavy clouds promising piles upon piles of more snow? At this point it seemed about as useful as her gates had been last night.

Pretty fucking _not_.

She shivered and pressed on. White mist puffed from her mouth with each breath.

_Left foot forward, right foot forward - keep them going, just don’t stop._

When Sinvik had taught her how to keep her soul from frolicking about without the _barr_ to bind it, she’d done so because the Verge wouldn’t have her any more. Wouldn’t accept her even sticking a small toe into it. All it had wanted to do was kill her.

Sadja had turned herself into an abomination, a thing so foul that the Verge refused to let her touch it, and that had made the gates a necessity.

Sinvik, untiring in her efforts, had spent a few evenings staring at her, light brown eyes narrowed slightly in deep thought as she mulled over her ideas. Initially she tried simple meditation. Calm her mind, set her thoughts straight. It had failed miserably, but at least she’d gotten good at wringing the _barr_ back around her in a hurry. Next, Sinvik had drawn her a window. That had shattered right quick. So she’d moved on to a sturdy door with lock and key. No good either. What had done the trick was a gate strong enough to hold an armed host at bay. Only then had the Verge stayed put and let her have some resemblance of peace.

Then Redfield happened, years later, after she’d reinforced it and perfected it, and dismantled the whole thing.

_And uprooted you while he was at it._

Sadja didn’t have to remind herself of that. Hours later, and she could still feel the aftermath. Another fitful sleep on her couch hadn’t helped, and neither had half a flagon of bitter and disgusting káva.

He’d stuck around even then. Lingered. As if she’d slammed the gates shut before he got his coattail out.

So she’d headed out. Four flights of stairs later he’d dissipated.

One problem down, one more to go, Sadja had thought. Now what was left was to tackle the question on just what she had done wrong. And she _must_ have messed up somewhere, somehow. She wasn’t a scrubby little _Quirk_ , but a _Keeper_ (disowned by the Cataract, but that was beside the point). If that wasn’t enough already, a _Cad’his_. And _Cad’his_ even at their worst, wouldn’t allow themselves to be overpowered by an unmarked and insignificant creature.

Redfield was just that, insignificant.

Sadja’s pace picked up. Her feet hit the ground harder.

He was just another grain of sand in the ever shifting tide of dunes rolling across a barren desert. A plain human. Sub-par by nature. Simple in design. Flimsical. Bland. Weak.

Not _Sare_. Not _worthy_. An _oaf_ taking what wasn’t his.

Sadja’s left hand curled into a tight fist.

She should have put that insolent cur down. _ < Should have shattered what was left. Ground all the pieces into dust! > _ The beast raged. _ < You just have to _ let _me! > _ It growled with frustration and thrashed in its cage.

Sadja let out a ragged breath. She released her clenched hand, rotated her wrist, and flexed her fingers until she could be certain that they wouldn’t go right back to trying to dig her nails into her palms. Her run came to an abrupt halt too and she folded forward to grab onto her knees.

“Elaya’s bloody knickers…” she breathed, while an overly anxious heart beat fast in her chest. Adrenaline pumped through her, brought by the beast and its vicious demands, rather than the thrill of any true danger.

 _”Your very own little devil,”_ Sinvik had called the piece of her that had never quite set itself right. She’d not argued, though a devil at least might have displayed some form of restraint and cunning. This thing? It was raw fury. Hate. It was a vile little thing that sought to solve all her problems by tearing them to bits.

 _Beast_ fitted well enough.

“Behave,” murmured Sadja, and it slunk back into the shadows of its cage.

She pushed her hands off her knees and rolled her shoulders. Ahead of her, the riverbank curved gently towards the outskirts of the city, where it would continue on and on. Maybe she should follow it, find out where it went. It might meet hills up ahead. Or proper mountains? Marshland? Forests? She looked over her shoulder, back the way she’d come.

She could head back, too. Poke at the mystery waiting in her crib some more. Figure out the ins and outs of her bumbling, maybe even scrape a little at the guilt she’d found.

A buzzing noise interrupted her pondering, and the pocket against her left side came alive with a wild quiver.

“Huh—?” She patted at her jacket, expecting an upset mouse to come scrambling out, but found Redfield’s gadget instead.

“I’ll be damned, what’s with you?” She fished the buzzing thing from her pocket. “Having a bit of a spazz there, are we?”

Light flashed at the front of it, along with a name and a splash of red and green. Sadja’s eyebrows hiked up with curiosity.

**Piers NIVANS**

“Piers.” She rolled the name off her tongue and remembered the youthful face, all flushed red with embarrassed outrage. A man from Redfield’s recent past, maybe even a piece of the puzzle for her to collect. Sadja jammed her finger against the green blob of colour. The buzzing stopped.

_What now?_

She blinked at the thing. Lifted it carefully up to her ear, mimicking all those busy folks she’d watched before. Then she held it precariously a few centimetres away from herself and thought that this was utterly stupid.  

A hesitant, yet hopeful, voice squeezed from it.

“Captain Redfield?” Pause. “Chris? He-Hello? Captain, if you can hear me— Please speak up. Tell us where you are.”

Should she? Should she go tell on him and let young Nivans and their outfit sort him out? She scrunched up her nose and sniffed.

_No. Not done with you yet, Sir. You’ve got things to answer for._

“You’re sounding awfully desperate there, Neevanz.” She was sure she’d gotten the name wrong, almost hoped that she had, too. The fledgling Keeper could be an aggravating cunt. Silence followed, a few heartbeats of whispers in the back that she couldn’t make any sense of.

Then: “Who is this? How did you get this phone?”

“Now, see, this is beginning to hurt my feelings. Why won’t _anyone_ remember me?” she said into the gadget, feeling awfully silly all the while. “What’s a girl got to do to leave an impression nowadays?”

“You—“ The young man’s voice almost fell over itself. “Where is he! If you’ve—”

“—relax. I’m not laying a finger on him. Though I can’t say he’s extending me the same courtesy.”

The whispers in the background had turned into a frantic back and forth of raised voices.

“Just what have you done to him anyway?” Sadja asked. “He’s in a bit of a state, that one. And I really don’t think he wants to talk to you. Not yet.”

“I swear I will find you,” He sounded ready to reach through the gadget and tear her throat out on the spot. “And you won’t get away this time. Am I making myse—“ Sadja pushed the red blob.

“Yu-huh. Whatever.”

She stared at the silent gadget and then switched it off. Nivans might otherwise get ideas and start bothering her, and she’d rather not have to deal with that too, no matter how endearing the hothead’s affection for his _Captain_ might be.

“People really _do_ care about you don’t they?” The gadget slid back into her pocket. “I don’t get it. Truth be told, you’re a bit of a dick, Redfield.”

* * * 

 **W** hy had he thrown that left hook?

Chris stared dumbly at his reflection in the mirror.

_Why?_

He lifted his left arm, turned his hand up in front of him. The knuckles were bruised.

_No, really. Why?_

His brows knitted in concentration, but all that did was threaten to pound his eyes from his skull. No memory surfaced, no clue to what had happened. Just that blurry image of a pockmarked, long face and a line of straight teeth. And for some reasons unknown to him, he’d cracked his knuckles into it.

The first of many a poor decision, all of which had led him back here.

Long face, as it turned out, had a friend. Chris— not so much. Things had escalated from there. Gotten real ugly, real fast. He remembered that, at least.

Mistake number two had been the long walk through the alleys towards the only place he could pick from his memory that had sat right with him.

Mistake number three had been to knock on her door.

Mistake number four— Chris moved his hand to prod at the uneven stitches gracing his forehead. They really _were_ terrible. It was half a miracle they’d held overnight.

He winced.

And mistake number five he couldn’t sweep from his mind. It made his stomach turn. It tightened his throat, eager to strangle him. And it had regret and shame play king of the hill on the crown of his head.

He couldn't change what he'd done last night. Couldn't erase it. Couldn't forget it. There wasn't some cure to this, or a way to wind back time and remind himself to be a decent human being. He was stuck with what he'd done and he'd be stuck with it for the rest of his fucking life. 

And he needed a fucking drink. 

The loft remained empty when Chris made his way down the stairwell. He scanned the spacious room anyway, not quite trusting the silence broken only by the muffled sounds of a busy city’s morning rush knocking against the wide windows. For all he knew she might appear out of thin air any moment now. And then she'd join the parade on his head. He certainly deserved it.

But she didn’t. The loft remained deserted. 

Chris headed for the kitchen island. Its counters were less cluttered than before, but they still held a decent pile of foodstuff boxes and cans. None of them looked appealing, they just made his stomach ache and his mind wonder why anyone stockpiled canned fruit these days.

The fridge then.

He wandered over to said fridge, lifted his hand for the handle, and noted a set of keys dangling from it. They were tied up in a green shoe string, and a piece of paper had been rolled together tightly and slipped through the keyring. Chris hesitated, his hand still hovering by the handle.

_No._

He ignored himself, tugged the paper free and unfolded it.

 _”No more knocking.”_ she’d scribbled on it.

_Stop right there._

He ignored that too and untied the knot, wrapped the shoestring around his finger instead. The keys rested in his palm. Light. Cold. Damning and utterly confusing. 

_What did I expect?_

Getting himself thrown from the place, that was what. Head first out the window, preferably. Yet here he was: Key in hand, stomach hurting for food, head wanting for a drink, and feet not quite willing to walk him out of here. 

_God damnit._

Chris popped open the fridge, gave the dismal contents a once over. Equally badly stocked as the last time he’d raided it… Four bottles of water—he snatched one up—, apples in a pile at the back, lose eggs rolling about, some greens, a plate of sliced sandwiches — _Don’t mind if I do_ — and a neat row of beer bottles. He didn't even need to think to get his hand to snatch one of those up. Then he carried the lot of it towards the couch by the wide windows, placed it all next to a stack of printed papers.

He glanced at his miserable breakfast, then took a look out the windows across the drab, gray cityscape. The key still dangled from his hand, and he lifted it briefly, squinting at it as if he expected it to blow any moment. Then he stuffed it into his front jeans pocket and decided to figure out what to do with it later. Preferably he’d be leaving it at the door, or maybe hang himself with the shoestring.

Chris grimaced and sat. A pair of colourful patchwork blankets lay jumbled across the couch, and he’d squashed a pillow under him. He clenched his jaws, adjusted his weight, and pushed aside the remnants of his host’s makeshift bed. He wished, miserably, that he could push the guilt churning in his gut away too.

That feeling of utter failure. Of him crossing a line he’d never be coming back from.

Just looking at the couch, at thinking that she’d slept here while he’d been passed out upstairs, and how she’d done that two times before— not ever arguing the fact of it. Like it was the most natural thing to do.

_This is only going to get worse, isn’t it?_

His eyes stung. He grimaced. Squeezed the bridge of his nose. 

He couldn’t even remember her God damn name. Just that it had been an odd one, a bit like the rest of her. What he remembered clear enough was how she’d found him wandering. Taken him here. Offered him fresh clothes, which he’d taken because he’d not been thinking very clearly then. Then she’d watched him leave. And then she’d let him come back.

He hardly remembered a thing from that night, just slices of recollections involving a curious set of scars and a challenging climb up the stairs. He’d fled the next day, but he’d been so damned hungry he’d not even bothered feeling guilty about taking off with her food.

He did catch a memory of watching her sleeping form on the couch. She'd been covered in the same patchwork blankets he’d just tossed aside. Had laid there almost perfectly still, with the faintest rise and fall of her shoulders the only indication that she'd been alive. There’d been a moment of fighting the urge to wake her up. To thank her. Maybe even sit down and talk to her.

But he hadn’t done any of that. He’d bailed.

For a while.

If only he’d not have come back.

Chris let the shame sink his heart, didn’t even bother trying to fight it. He deserved the pinch of pain in his gut. The disgust. It was enough to rob him of his appetite, but Chris ate anyway, not tasting much. Eventually the pain turned to frustration, with himself the most, but with her, too. Why’d she let him in? Why’d she not said anything? Or had she and he couldn’t remember that?

_Jesus. Fucking. Christ._

Chris swallowed the last bit of dry and chilled bread, tried to focus on working the cap off the beer bottle to wash everything down. The success was marginal at best, so he lifted the bottle to his forehead, pressed the cool glass against his skin, and let his eyes wander along the table. They paused on the stack of papers, not quite making any sense of them at first, until his mind limped forward and told him that he was looking at travel pamphlets.

He reached out, flicked at the stack, and watched it scatter. The papers slid across the table, presenting him with a large selection of single folded pages, thin booklets, and even a few somewhat thicker books. Chris leaned forward, one hand still pressing the beer to his head, the other nudging at the papers.

She’d collected half of Europe, along with a few larger cities farther off the continent.  Paris, New York, Sydney, Prague, Dublin, London, Barcelona… the list went on, and Chris was halfway through the beer by the time he’d decided to start picking them up and skimming through all of them. She’d scribbled wild symbols into the margins of some of the pages, and drawn thick black circles around a variety of different pictures. Castles, cobbled streets, beaches.

_Quite a few beaches._

Last night’s idle chit-chat hadn’t just been that then. He flinched. Yes, he remembered that. Along with a lot of other things, and he  _really didn't need to think about them right now._ Or ever again. Ever. 

So he focused on how she'd been serious about looking for someplace else to be. And now he'd knocked over her research. Great. _You're a fucking asshole, Redfield._ Chris sighed, piled the collection back together. Tried to righten it a little bit too, make it look like no one had been at it. Especially not him.

Then he looked out the window and wondered: Why? Why _here_ to begin with? Why Edonia, with its borders wracked by civil war still? Why the frigid winter here, if she was looking for warmth?

The beer returned to his lips and he took another two gulps. Less greedy this time, with his mind drifting off to try and make sense of her. At first, Chris had thought her a rich girl. One with a questionable taste in everything, including what she allowed past her doorstep and where she spent her evenings. Then he’d seen her scarred arms and all the smaller nicks on her, and that thought wavered. And then she’d taken a needle to his forehead and blown the rest of that theory right out of the water.

He leaned back on the couch and stared towards the unfinished ceiling. Nothing here fit. He didn’t, she didn’t.

 _“We both don’t belong, do we, Chris?”_   She’d looked at him plainly when she’d asked that. Without judgement or expectation. It hadn’t felt like a question though, had it? More like a statement, as if she was privy to a secret that she expected him to know all about as well.

Chris stood, walked across the loft, beer in hand— and started with the kitchen drawers. One by one he dragged them open. All but one were empty. And that one was a mess of cables, matches, forks, knives and spoons. The others remained squeaky clean, like the rest of the place. Vacant, he thought. No one actually _lived_ here. Certainly not her. Chris frowned. He faintly registered the brush of excitement that tried itself at clearing his mind, and moved on to the cupboards.

First one, empty. Second one, empty. Third one… kitchenware.

He grunted. Disappointed by his find, or lack of one, Chris scanned the loft. He knew the bedroom was bare, he’d spent enough time in there, so where did she—

“Gotcha.” A double winged door, white and plain like the rest of the walls, had been hiding below the walkway. And it wasn’t even locked. One gentle pull and it swung open with barely a squeak. Behind it stood a walk-in closet, maybe 6 feet wide, lined with shelves. Four piles of clothing, cardboard boxes, two duffel bags… and a whole shelf dedicated to wicked things.

“Shit.”

Chris lifted the beer bottle to his mouth and emptied the rest of it.

It started with stacks of money. Bills in at least two different currencies. US Dollars, Euros, all tied together neatly and sorted by value. Then there was the roll of climbing rope and an ice hook — neither of which he thought she was using to climb glaciers in the vicinity. A row of pins and wires with bent and twisted tops lay next to them. Home-made lockpicks. And, of course, a sidearm. An M1911, by the looks of it, along with two boxes of ammunition.

He placed the beer bottle on the shelf.

What were the chances of it being fake? He picked it up, weighed it in his hand, racked the slide and ejected the magazine. Not fake.

Chris waited for the twinge of worry, or some measure of concern for his safety, but only managed another pounding headache.

_Great._

He placed the pistol back on the shelf, picked up his beer.

Now there was a good enough reason to get out of here. To not wait around because he needed to face her and tell her he was _Sorry._ Whatever that was worth. But this? This was a little bit too far on the wild side for his liking. He had no business being here, and if he started walking now, Chris figured, he might be able to get far enough to never find his way back.

* * *

 **S** adja packed the dirty snow tightly between her hands.

“Leave me _alone_!” She squeezed through clenched teeth, almost a hiss really, twisted her shoulders, and threw the thing at the impossible Ceat. It flew right through him and hit a passing vehicle behind him with a dull thud. Heads turned. Chins lifted. Startled eyes settled on her as she hurried on. And wherever she stepped souls scattered like mice from the prowling cat.

_This isn’t good. This isn’t good at all._

She sucked in a whistle of air, shoved her hands into her pockets, and ducked into the nearest offshoot, away from the street and prying eyes that deemed her insane. Ceat followed.

Well, they were right, weren’t they? About her being insane. Deranged.

Losing it. Her mind, her heart, her bloody all. All taken away by an impossible specter.

Ceat had shown himself when the rest of the city woke. He’d appeared out of no-where as she made her way back towards the centre. At first he’d been just another face in a small huddle of people waiting at a station for transport of some sort. Then he’d broken away from them and trailed her like one of the shadowed figures that mothers warned their daughters about.

“Imma’ gonna’ let you know that this is so many ways removed from decent that you’d turn in your grave if you had one,” Sadja cursed him. The crib was up ahead, across the square— _Move, get out of my way… coming through… fuck, look where you bloody walk!_ —and now up that street.

It would be better inside, she told herself. Had to be. If only for the closed walls and silence around her. Yes, it would be better. Had to be. Please.

She reached the tall building that sat in the tight forest of its equally tall peers, and almost bounced off Redfield standing by the entrance.

* * *

 **C** hris flicked the cigarette bud into the pile of snow to his right. It bounced off and came rolling back towards him. He stared at it, sighed, and ground it into the pavement with the tip of his boot.

“Have somewhere to be again?”

His head jerked up at the sound of her voice. She stood peering up at him, hands tugged into a slim fitted dark jacket. While he looked at her (and tried to drag her name from whatever pile of nonsense he’d lost it in, and maybe find something to say that wasn’t a “Yes.” or a “No.”) she fidgeted about nervously.

 _I’m sorry_ , would have been a good start. _About last night— I was drunk, I wasn’t thinking clearly, I apologise,_ might have worked too. But neither did it any justice. And neither of them made the light of day.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Chris commented as she stood balancing on the balls of her feet, ready to take flight at the drop of a dime. She frowned at that and swivelled her head to throw a look over her shoulder. Chris tracked the movement, but spotted nothing of note at the patch of sidewalk she kept staring at.

“Mh,” Her left hand came up and rubbed at her nape. “That’d be about right. I—“ She looked at him again, mulled something over behind her honey coloured eyes, and then offered him a brief smile. One easily missed if you didn’t pay attention. Here now, gone then. Much like his resolve to get out of here.

“Say, will you make me coffee again, Redfield?”

Lips drawn into a thin line, brows furrowed — full of hope and expectation. Not resentment, not fury, and not a lick of fear.

Chris struggled to keep his jaw from clenching and he forced a nod.

“Sure.”

* * *

 _**S** ylvia? _No.

She huddled in her corner of the elevator, hands folded behind her back, and seemed preoccupied with her own thoughts.

 _Si…Sienna?_ No.

Once in awhile she’d looked towards the doors, her brows pinching almost skeptically, and then they’d flick to the buttons on the sides where the light climbed from floor to floor. She fidgeted. Clearly nervous, though Chris couldn’t shake the thought that it wasn’t him she was working herself up over. Not a word was spoken either, so he kept rattling names off the list while he studied her slim, compact frame wrapped in a dark jacket hugging her torso and a pair of loosely fitting pants in dirty gray. She wore a wide scarf, too. It bunched up against her chin and she carried it a little like a soldier might wear a shemagh. On occasion her chin dipped out of sight into it and she’d start chewing on it. Especially while her eyes were busy judging the door or the floor and she made herself look like a caged animal frozen with fear.

 _Sydney?_ Wrong, too.

Her jacket was torn at the midriff, he observed. A lighter patch covered the damage, carelessly stitched on, much like the gash on his forehead.

_Samantha?_

When the elevator opened the girl whose name he couldn’t fucking remember stepped out first, but paused half-way out and threw one look left and one look right. As if expecting someone to be waiting in the hallway.

 _S… Come_ on _, what the hell…_

Chris pinched the bridge of his nose, stalling for time inside the elevator compartment, at least until the doors were about to start falling shut again. He snapped his hand forward, felt the metal knock against his forearm, and followed her to the door that he’d left behind in a hurry just minutes before.

Now she stood in front of it, patting at her jacket for a key with shaking hands. After a few drawn out moments of watching her frisk herself, Chris looked down at his waist, at the green shoestring dangling from his front pocket. So he’d kept it. By accident, he told himself, probably forgot that it had been there.

He considered offering her the key, but she’d already noticed him looking and had stopped her fruitless search. A still quivering hand grabbed hold of the free end of the shoestring.

“Much obliged,” she said and tugged the key free. Then she fumbled with the lock a little, the key scraping up and down while her fingers kept trembling.

“I admit I’m surprised you stayed.” She pushed the door open. “Expected you to be half across the city by now.”

“Yah—so am I,” Chris admitted and followed her through the door. No need to pretend otherwise.

_Sadja? Yes! Fucking finally._

The strange girl with the strange name (and the handgun stashed away in her closet) finally managed to get the door open and let herself in. She shrugged the jacket off her shoulders. Threw it at a waiting hook. Missed. It fell to the floor and she seemed not to care. Instead she turned and traded him another fleeting smile.  

Here now. Gone then.

Chris pulled the door shut behind them. Chances were he’d made another bad decision, but for now it felt like the right thing to do.

* * *

 **S** he trusted the peace as much as she trusted Redfield. Though if she were to choose between a dead man to haunt her and drive her insane, and a broken one to keep her on her toes… It wasn’t a terribly difficult choice to make.

Both of them were an enigma. A question that begged answering. Ceat for having stayed away the moment she’d returned to the crib, and Redfield for sticking around. Despite an evident and almost overwhelming urge to bail, too.

 _Good man._ Sadja thought.

Though not that he was here neither of them had much to say. While she still tried to shed the aftermath of her encounter with Ceat, Redfield sat staring out the wide windows for what amounted to half an eternity by now, and tried to shake his encounter with _her._  

He made an effort to be all stoic and collected on the outside though, while beneath that surface lay stormy waters with strong, treacherous tides. She’d shed her _barr_ and snuck a peek over her gates. Tried to ride them, but that just made her seasick. Besides, she had no interest in finding out what would happen if they’d pull her under. Not again.

Sadja swivelled on her stool and pushed herself off. She landed softly, padded towards the slouching figure, and sunk into the spot next to him. Not a muscle twitched at her uninvited proximity. Like she wasn’t even there. He continued his miserable watch over the city below, one hand idly twisting a _pivo_ bottle between thumb and index finger, the other pinching the bridge of his nose.

_Maybe we shouldn’t have given him that drink. Who are we to feed his vices?_

The same could be said about him though. He’d turned into a bit of a bad habit. _Her_ bad habit, the one she let in through the door despite him not really wanting to be here.

She clicked her tongue. Sniffed at the air. Looked left, then right, then up, and eventually on her stack of books and sleeves of papers on his side of the table. The pile looked a little wrong, leaning to the left, rather than neat and straight like she’d left it.

Sadja tried herself at a smirk and leaned towards them, sliding them over to her end. That got his attention, and he tracked her movements with a sideways glance.

“I found the lot of them at that station with all those big metal carts.” Sadja flipped the first one open. Tall spires of grey buildings, busy streets brimming with yellow vehicles.

 _No, thanks._ She tossed it to the floor.

“Metal… carts?”

“Mh. Noisy things strung up in a row and going on tracks.” She snatched up the next booklet.

“Trains,” Redfield offered, his voice wavering.

“Trains,” she echoed while tapping her finger against the picture of rolling, deep green hills and a whole bunch of fluffy white animals. Sheep, she figured. Lots of worlds had sheep. Why did so many worlds have sheep? _’Not so bad.’_ The rest of the booklet was full of things old and narrow, and folks in it had pretty orange hair. She picked it up and showed it to him.

“Will they take me there?”

He stared at her.

Rules number two to being a Keeper was one that Sadja had never had much of an issue with. It had come natural to her, much like breathing the air thick of Ward-stink as a Sare. _Do not stand apart from your charge._ Or, to put plainly, _Don’t stick out._ Keep your head down. Keep your voice low. Only speak when you’re certain you won’t betray yourself. Prepare. Learn. Adapt.

Well, the _Cataract_ had disowned her, and Sadja found the prospect of not caring about its firm set of rules childishly refreshing. So when Redfield stared at her as if she’d just swooped down from the skies on the back of a purple unicorn, she felt momentarily lightheaded. Giddy, one might say.

For all intents and purposes she should have played a game of pretend with Redfield, led him on to believe ordinary things by his standards, whatever those might be. Unicorns, for example. Did they have unicorns here? What about purple ones? _Would_ he look at her funny if she had one? She’d not bothered finding out. But the design by which she was expected to behave could go and royally fuck itself, Sadja thought, and cracked a sheepish grin.

“N-No. Trains will not take you to Ireland.”

“Hm. What will?”

He blinked. “A plane.”

“Where do I find one of those?”

And he stared again. Sadja was beginning to enjoy herself a little more than she probably should.

“Do… do you have a passport?”

 _A passwhat?_ She shook her head.

“Then a plane won’t do you much good. Neither will the trains, not from here at least. They won’t let you on them.”

Sadja hummed at that and picked up the next booklet, only to toss it onto the floor as well. More tall buildings. Yuck. The fourth one she liked again; White buildings against a backdrop of blue ocean, old ruins weathering time and man alike, and colourful foods along with a whole lot of brightly smiling people.

“What about this one?”

“Greece?”

“Greece,” she repeated and nodded.

Redfield sighed and began rifling through the stack she’d collected. He pulled one thicker book from it and flipped it open at the back. Both pages were covered with a map in muted colours.

“This-“ He tapped a finger at a spot of orange a little up to the right. It sat up there, then extended in a long bulb downwards, all the while sitting next to a gigantic area of pale yellow. “-is where you are.”

She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees.

“Right…”

“These-“ He glanced at her, much like you’d check if a child was paying attention to their homework, and indicated two spots across the map. One further north, to the left, one down to the south. “Are Ireland and Greece.”

“What about this one?” Sadja tapped the gigantic yellow-ish thing.

“Russia.” Chris paused. “You don’t want to go to Russia.”

“Okay. This one?” She tapped the one just above the one she’d ended up in.

“Finland. Better. Still cold as balls though.”

So he’d been listening last night. Cute. Her finger moved to the left.

“Sweden. Norway. You’re headed the wrong way-“ he nudged her finger down across half the map “—try south if you want to get out of the winter.”

Sadja glanced at him and spotted the hint of a twitch on his lips. A smile that didn’t quite make it to bloom.

“So you _do_ have an opinion, Redfield.”

“No— Yes. I don’t know.” Whatever hope that smile might have had was promptly crushed. He sighed and threw a glance over his shoulder at the door of the closet stuffed full with her livelihood.

“Ah,” Sadja sat a little straighter and pulled her hands away from the map. Of course he’d been poking around the place. Who wouldn’t? Redfield looked at her, muddy blue eyes searching. For a flicker of alarm maybe, or a threat. When he found neither he resorted to the steadfast scowl again that furrowed his brows and was likely meant to be intimidating.

“You wouldn’t believe a word of that story, trust me. I’m still ironing out the kinks myself.”

“Try me,” he prompted.

Sadja sniffed and tilted her head.

“Aright. Let’s make a deal then, Redfield. You tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine,” she bargained.

He hesitated and looked back towards the closet, rusty gears turning.

“Nothing to tell.”

He didn’t sound overly convinced himself, but Sadja knew not to pry lest she’d send him running for the hills again.

“Fair’nuff. Then just tell me everything you know about… Uh…” She snatched another sleeve of paper from the table and held it out to him. He raised an eyebrow and the stoic frown wavered.

“Amsterdam,” Redfield said.

“Amsterdam,” she repeated. “… get talking, and we’ll take it from there. Shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll take the liberty of rambling a little about the last two chapters. This might get a little preachy and maybe sad. It has no bearing on the story itself, so no need to actually read it!
> 
> Some people might not like how Sadja reacted to what happened last night. Why doesn't she consider it abuse? Why isn't she more outraged? Why doesn't she seem to _mind_? 
> 
> Because she doesn't. Her history is one of things so much worse, that Redfield's transgression isn't being considered as true wrong doing to her. That she came to the conclusion that she's okay with it, needs it, is beside the point.
> 
> This acceptance is a theme that can be observed in people that survived abuse, in one form or the other. Many just allow themselves to suffer at the hands of others and don't even realise it, because its so much easier to just accept, rather than fight.
> 
> What I'm trying to say is that it is not good. It is not healthy. But this way of thinking does exist, and people should be aware of it. Getting used to abuse is not okay. If you see that, ever, please help them.


	9. Say whatever you want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We spend a little more time with Sadja and Redfield comes to the conclusion that "Girls always have candles." while he wrestles with his conscience.

**SAY WHATEVER YOU WANT.**

* * *

 

> ❛ **_Day 19_** _; Wake before first light. Pick yourself together from another muddy dream. Get up. Shower until you’re all red and puffy. Dress. Eat._
> 
> _No one to knock on the door with a petition to one of the Keepers. A Shielding is a Shielding these days and they care little which one they find._
> 
> _No one to remind me that I’m late again, that this thing Lord Shrivelcock or Lady Saggytits requires a blessing for has started an hour ago._
> 
> _No Sinvik to draw me in from the turmoil, or to crawl to for council._
> 
> _No Reapers nipping at my heels._
> 
> _No Ward to breathe down my neck._
> 
> _No judging glances. No one to tell me what to do._ ❜

Sadja tilted her head to the side. She stared down at her journal, at her useless words scrawled in her tiny, useless script. Her tongue darted out and licked absent-mindedly at the end of her pencil. It tasted funny. A bit like her life did, these days. She slipped it between her lips and let her teeth click down on it.

Some things the fledgling Keeper could do without. She frowned. _Most_ things, truth be told. There wasn’t much that she missed, even if she tried hard to think of them. The thought of not missing things, of drawing a blank on what she _needed,_ hooked itself into her heart, all barbed wire and ill intentions. Her teeth bit down harder and the wood creaked in protest.

She’d not even been thinking about the dormant Wasting much, hadn’t mentioned it to herself in a while. Not in writing, not in self indulgent conversations held with herself in front of the bathroom mirror. Out of sight, out of mind, no? An idle finger flipped the pages back, and idle eyes scanned for mentions of it. Like it didn’t even exist, as if it wasn’t of any consequence to her as it sat quiet within her and waited for the perfect moment to come ruin her life. Or end it, rather.

She sniffed.

Instead of lamenting what was to be, she’d written about what she’d left behind, or at least tried to put words to the things that she missed. That warm weather and a nagging Sinvik was about the only thing she’d been able to come up with made breathing a little more difficult than it probably should have been.

She sighed, turned time forward again and set the pencil down where she’d left off. She might not miss much, but she did feel the burden of her flight, of how she’d hoped the Cataract might save her— and how she’d abandoned those that needed her in the processes.

> ❛ _None of that,_ ❜ she continued. ❛ _An impossible Ceat is what I have, sent to remind me of my sins and my wrongs. If it wasn’t for him all of this would be a shade closer to pleasant._ ❜

Pleasant. She scoffed and snapped her teeth at the pencil again. This time they missed and clicked down on empty air.

> ❛ _And then there’s the work in progress, that Redfield, who decided to stay, rather than flee the scene of his crime. And Elaya come be my witness, he even showed the good graces to join me for breakfast._ ❜

She paused, stared down at the tip of the pencil. A tentative smile tugged on the corners of her lips. 

> ❛ _Turns out he’s a picky piece of shit._ ❜

Her tongue clicked and she hummed to herself as she thought back to the blank and disapproving stare at what was left in the magnificent box of cold wonders.

> ❛ _Tell you what, Redfield: Get bent. You want better breakfast, make it yourself._
> 
> _Aside of his curiously complex taste, he’s decent enough company. Not stellar, not something to write home to Da’ over. Decent. He hardly speaks. Hardly moves. Sits by the windows with his thoughts all his own and a dark cloud of unpleasantries hovering above him. He keeps the questions to himself too, although you can see them plain as day written across his brow._
> 
> _He doesn’t know what to think yet. Doesn’t trust me a lick. Can’t go far without a sideway glance my way that tells me he’s pondering what to make of me. Could be I’m just yanking his chain around, he’s thinking. Could also be that I’m a kooky tit, fresh from the bin for all cases of wack._ ❜

Sadja let the pencil hover above the paper, tilted her chin up and eyeballed Redfield as he dragged his coat around his shoulders. Dusk was beckoning him, urging him from the crib and into the frozen streets where he’d be doing Elaya knew what.

 _Getting drunk and dipping his wick,_ she liked to guess. Either that, or wander about aimlessly and pick another fight.

She sent her pencil into a dance across her knuckles and watched his slow, deliberate movements. Pull the coat shut. Pop the collar to ward from the winds. Open the door. Then forget what you were about to do and stand in the threshold staring blankly ahead.

The pencil stopped its dance and tapped against the journal instead. That got his attention. He threw a look over his shoulder towards where she sat by the counter, his muddy blue eyes searching. A heartbeat later his glowering stare met hers, and she arched a brow at him in answer. The glower faltered, caught somewhere between a frown and a budding smile. She’d have liked to cheer him on then, get him to admit to some emotion or the other, but then he remembered that he had somewhere to be.

That somewhere being out the door, without a word of goodbye. Typical.

“Ta-Ta,” Sadja told the empty room.

He was still restless, mind and soul all in a dither. If anything it had gotten a little worse still, with his anxiety howling angrily into his ear whenever his feet weren’t carrying him forward.

Except he’d not walk far. Not this time.

Or if he did, he’d come walking right back to her, Sadja knew. To stay away, to not look at her and ponder his sins, that’d allow the guilt and shame a victory he couldn’t afford. A guilt which, Sadja had to admit, she’d felt a little excited over at first, hoping it meant _something_. But that hope had died quickly. He’d put an end to it when she’d noticed how the guilt flared brightly whenever his eyes landed on her.

There lay pride buried under all that filth after all. Integrity, too. Whatever chip he carried on his shoulders, and whatever had turned him to a man of little to no words and a lot of threatening scowls, it wasn’t all he seemed made of.

A hint of decency still clung onto him, and it insisted that he’d beg for her pardon, that he find the words for it and present them to her. Clumsy ones, good ones, poetic ones, it didn’t really matter. As long as they were words and as long as she’d listen.

Sadja didn’t need them though. She’d accept them, give him a show of it if that was what he wanted, but she really did not need them. Truth be told, and may Elaya forgive her for it, she rather enjoyed watching him squirm. The shame also bound him here, in one form or the other. Chances were he’d take right off once he worked a _Sorry_ out of himself. Like a fish that slipped the hook and flopped its way back into the current after you’d already hung it up for later.

She craned her neck at the page in front of her. A bloated fish had sprung from her pencil to take up a whole page, a sturdy hook latched into a meaty tail. “Not glum enough,” she murmured and gave the fish a low brow and crinkled mouth.

 _That looks about right._ She opened and closed her mouth noisily, pretending herself at being a fish, and wondered if Redfield would mind if she presented him her drawing and told him she’d dubbed it Redfin.

Maybe he’d like it.

She leaned away from the counter and arched her back, feeling a row of satisfying pops travel down her vertebra. She could dress the fish in combat gear. Tuck a rifle under its fin.

_All the other fishes will be envious._

“ _You’ll ruin him too._ ”

The fledgling Keeper lost her balance on the high chair. It tilted with her weight and both of them collapsed onto the floor in a heap of limbs and metal.

She hissed a curse and balled her hands into fists. Just when the evening had looked like it’d hold steady… Standing above her was the impossible Ceat, his lips drawn in a thin line and eyes heavy with accusation.

His shade had darkened. The once thick, black locks crowning his face were fading to a dirty grey and his skin had turned ashen. Patches of sickly red clung to his cheeks and crowned his forehead, as if he’d caught a terrible rash and had been scratching at it vigorously. The rest of him wasn’t off much better either. Whatever clean clothes her imagination had conjured onto him before, were now in rags. Full of tears and their colours washed out.

Ceat took a step forward.

And she _felt_ him. For the first time since he’d returned, Sadja felt him bear down on her with vivid clarity.

Vivid and cold.

A biting chill rolled off him and Sadja half expected her breath to mist as she exhaled a shaky breath. “ _You’ll ruin him too,_ ” he repeated.

She believed him.

* * *

 **C** hris returned to find the loft dark and quiet, save for a single bead of light by the edge of the wide windows.  Sadja sat with her back against the wall there, knees pulled up to her chin, and a candle by her feet. He didn’t even know she’d had candles.

_Girls always have candles._

She looked up as he closed the door, and watched him quietly as he pulled off his coat and boots. At first, Chris thought to just head up the winding stairs and leave her to… to whatever.

He was tired. His right leg hurt. His feet ached. His everything ached. There wasn’t a bone on him that didn’t feel rattled and no tendon that didn’t assume itself overstretched. His eyes cut up the stairs. A neat mattress waited for him up there. A pillow, too.

So he wanted to sleep. Big deal. Lately what he wanted to do, and what he actually ended up doing, were rarely aligned with each other.

He let out a frustrated sigh, abandoned thoughts of comfortable bedding for the time being, and walked towards the pair of honey coloured eyes.

A few steps in and he almost tripped over a can of baked beans.

He paused, gave the loft a quick sweep. The place was a mess. He really didn’t need much light to tell that she’d pretty much turned it upside down while he’d been gone. The couch pillows had been thrown towards the entrance. Her patchwork blankets had gone flying as well, and she’d turned over two of the high chairs. She’d also swept the kitchen counter clean, with all the boxes and cans that had been stacked atop of it now strewn across the floor. The only thing left untouched was the damned coffee machine.

He glanced down, kicked at the can that had tried to trip him, and watched it roll listlessly out of his way.

Sadja looked a mess too. Drained, he thought. Her long dark hair was in disarray, her posture slumped and her eyes puffy. The hoops of the plain olive green tank-top she seemed to favour hung loosely down her slim shoulders, and she moved to set them straight when she realised he was headed over to join her.

That didn’t help the hounded look, the same she’d worn two mornings ago. Wide eyed. Confused. Lost.

 _Seen another ghost?_ he wanted to ask, but hunkered down next to her instead and watched a curious display unfold.

She craned her neck to peek past him on the right, then the left. Her eyebrows drew together. Then they tried themselves at rocking up into her forehead when she looked to the top floor instead. Her mouth moved. Her tongue clicked. She seemed to be looking for something, and when she didn’t find it up there, she dropped her chin back down and tried to peer around him again.

Chris fought the urge to follow her gaze. He knew there was nothing there. He’d have seen it on his way in. Whatever _it_ might have been. But she looked so damn convinced he couldn’t help feel the hairs at the back of his neck prickle with an unexplained anticipation.

Eventually, Sadja gave up her search of the loft. Her chin dropped back down and he could hear a faint “What-the-fucking-fuck” riding her breath.

“Are you all right?”

She turned her eyes up, met his question with her own. An unspoken one that he couldn’t decipher. She didn’t nod. Didn’t shake her head. Just stared at him, like he owned her an answer.

 _Still not judging me,_ Chris admitted as he hunkered there, trying to keep himself perfectly still. She was doing God knows what behind the stare — seizing him up maybe, or brewing up another case of crazy talk. But no anger and certainly no accusation.

 _I’m sorry,_ he almost said, but she blindsided him with a deadpan “The lights won’t come on.” before he could get it out.

“What?”

“The lights,” she repeated, still all matter of fact. “They went out. And now they won’t come back on.” Her pupils were dilated in the dark, forming large black pools ringed with faint specks of amber that bled freely into the light brown of her iris. A detail he’d missed before. Like he’d missed a lot of things, he wagered. Strange eyes for a strange girl.

Chris sighed and stood. Strange girl indeed. He scanned the loft for the fuse box and found it mounted to the wall by the entrance.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

It was within easy enough reach for him, and when he popped the cover open he was beginning to feel useful. A pleasant change of pace, miles better than the constant nagging feeling of something ready to come crush him without a moment’s notice.

“So you can fix it?”

Chris twitched at the sound of her voice by his right shoulder. His eyes cut down to her, and he watched how she tied her hair into a tail that ended up dangling askew at the back of her head. The angle at which she stood allowed him a good look at the corkscrew tattoo snaking up her spine, and Chris wondered just how much more to it there was.

_None of your business._

He grimaced and turned to flip the line of fuses instead of following that train of thought. One by one they set in place, and the lights came back on around the loft. By his side, Sadja let out a startled “Huh” and a quick glance down showed her squeezing her eyes shut against the sudden glare.

He shut the fuse box. Stared at it. _What now?_ Chris frowned as he stared at his bruised knuckles, still slightly red and swollen from two nights ago.

“You’re not so bad to have around.” Sadja’s voice reset his thoughts and drew his eyes back to her.

She’d already taken off and started busying herself with picking up the mess on the floor. One by one she scooped up boxes and cans and dropped them back onto the counter where they belonged. One by one. Methodical and incredibly slow.

He looked around. There was a whole lot more wrong than what he’d noticed earlier in the dark. Torn pages littered the place. They’d been ripped to shreds, pieces big and small, and then carelessly scattered around the kitchen area. Some of them had blackened edges. Scotched. He snatched up one of them, turned it between his fingers. A fish. Not just that, an impressively depressed looking fish with a singed tail.

Chris _wanted_ to ask her what had happened, but he was too tired. Chances were she’d lie anyway, and he could do without that tonight.

So he rightened the high chairs, kicked another of the cans into her general direction, and then left Sadja to her own devices in favour of the familiar mattress upstairs. The fish he slipped into his pocket.

* * *

❛ **Day 21** ❜, she wrote with a shaking hand. ❛ _His leg is getting better, so I took him for a jog. He grumbled all gruff like, but when the fledgling Keeper says you’re going for a run then you’re going for a bloody run. No need for him to know that I needed that tour more than him._ ❜

“ _You’re going to kill him too,_ ” Ceat whispered by her left. A brush of ice accompanied the words. Sadja sniffed and rubbed at her cheek where the cold touched her. It was no ordinary chill, but one that impressed on her soul. There it took up residence, wormed its way through her entire being, before finally forcing itself to become real. To touch her bones. Her muscles. Her skin. The tips of her bloody hair.

“ _Send him away,_ ” he insisted.

She grunted at him, a croak that made it halfway up her throat before it died miserably and started rotting in there. He’d not shut up. He never would. He’d keep going and going and all she wanted to do was drown him out.

So she started fumbling for her new gadget, fingers groping blindly to try and get it singing.

Earlier today, Redfield had finally lost his patience with her. It seemed he only had so much of it in him, and after she’d stuck her head into five different stores just to listen to the music they’d been playing, he’d decided he’d had a whole lot of enough. After dive number five he’d dragged her into a shop filled with gadgets and shiny bits, reminding her of the _Seditio_ ’s workshop or the old derelict Arec control centres brimming with things she’d never understand. She’d not understood any of the things stacked top to bottom in that store either, but she’d caught on when he’d shown her that most of it was dedicated to the melodic rhythms of this world.

First, Redfield had found her a gadget of her own. She’d tried to reach for it, to take a look, but he’d scowled at her and tucked the thing under his arm. Then he’d grabbed her elbow and marched her on, only to plant her in front of a counter all lights and strange pictures.

 _”Here,”_ he’d said and planted a pair of round muffs over her head. Or _Headphones_ , as he called them. Whatever that meant. They’d been soft and they’d been warm though, and then they’d started singing for her.

Next he’d showed her how to skip from tune to tune, which had involved a lot of his hand slapping at hers and pointed scowls into her direction. But she’d gotten the hang of it, and Redfield had stepped aside to watch her from the safe distance of two arm lengths away.

The slow tunes bored her. The screeching electronic ones grated at her nerves. The ones made from things she didn’t even know could make music had her bob her head left and right, and the rhythmic guitars sent her hips swaying and feet moving.

By the time she’d picked out a few flat disks to go with her new toy, Redfield looked more amused than miffed. Not like he’d showed much of it. She’d just had an inkling that he’d stopped minding her for a heartbeat or two.

And now Redfield was gone, and she was left with the little toy sitting on the counter by her side. Sadja found the volume knob, twisted it sternly, and tried to let the music drown out the insistent chatter of her insistent sin. Drums and guitars screamed from the impossibly small thing, accompanying a man singing about a whole lot of talk and how he could laugh it off. The fledgling Keeper tapped her left foot against the side of the counter, following the quick rhythm of the beat. She liked it.

Not like the murmur in her ear. That she hated.

“ _I’m sure you don’t mean to, Sadja. But if you keep him close you will ruin him._ ”

She clenched her jaw. She didn’t have to listen to those echoes and she certainly didn’t need to believe him. But what had once been Ceat the Goodman had now turned himself into Ceat the Defeatist, full of doom and gloom and with a whole lot of things to say about past, present and future. None of it good, and all of it tailored to fit her already worn out soul.

He rode her close too, every waking moment if he could, and confronted her with her sins in colourful words that Sadja hadn’t thought him capable of.

So far Redfield had been the only repellant that worked. As if the heat that rolled off him melted the ice Ceat seemed made of, scorching him from her muddled mind. But Redfield was gone. He was out there, on yet another of his nightly prowls and he’d be gone for as long as his weary feet would carry him. Until then she’d have to deal with her sins on her own.

Or cope with, really.

There was very little she could do. Ignoring him was still as inefficient as it had been the first time he’d come back into her life and she couldn’t just _let_ him. She’d tried that. It hadn’t ended well.

Sadja glanced at her shaking hands, felt the too fast beat of her heart against her throat, and how her chest constricted with every passing moment. Plan C, as terrible as it sounded, began to look awfully attractive.

She slid off the high chair and skirted around Ceat to make her way to the miraculous box.

“It’s called a _fridge_ ,” Sadja mocked the absent Redfield and pulled the thing open. The insides chimed and rattled, bottles clinking together and items rolling about. She squinted into the piles and stacks of things, half of which she had no idea what it was and hadn’t felt adventurous enough to find out.

Redfield had been very insistent about cramming the thing chock-full of things she’d not even known she needed, and amongst the new contents were two large bottles of clear liquid. At first, Sadja had mistaken it for water. Then she’d spluttered and coughed and cursed Redfield while he’d looked at her from across the room with both his eyebrows almost hiking right off his head.

Not water at all, but some perfectly unsafe liquor that any self respecting _Cad’his_ ought to stay away from.

Sadja hadn’t ever respected herself much.

She reached her hand into the _fridge_ , knocked some contents aside, and pulled one of the bottles free that he’d pushed all the way to the back. Her fingers shook while they wrapped around its neck and she feared she might drop it, so she hugged it close as she padded back to the counter.

Ceat stared at her from behind it.

“ _Running again?_ ”

Her teeth clicked. She wanted to spit at him.

This wasn’t running. Not really. She wasn’t about to go anywhere. She was just going to find out what it was like to numb herself. To break down whatever kept her coiled tightly and whatever had her conjure up _him_.

Sadja sat, placed the bottle down in front of her, and cast a glance at Ceat. Hoped he’d suddenly disappear. _‘Sure. That’ll happen.’_ He’d moved, but he was still there, hovering close by with his temple bleeding red and his eyes milky and dead.

The Ward had always warned her about the consequences of a _Cad’his_ letting go of their inhibitions, to drop their senses in favour of a fleeting high, but what else was she supposed to do?

Have another go at her last two nights? Wreck the place a third time around? Finish what she’d started and _actually_ set the place on fire? She’d been so damned desperate to drive the cold from her that she’d torn up her old journal and lit it right up. But the flames had just aten away at the paper and they’d all gone and fluttered through the air like a bunch of dying fireflies with their light leaking from them.

Sadja grimaced.

That journal had been the second to last thing she’d had of _home_. And now she was left with this new thing she’d bought. The one that felt strange at the tips of her fingers, the paper _wrong_ by how fine it was and how smooth, and the cover so strangely stiff. She didn’t like it.

No. She couldn’t go back there. She’d rather give this a try.

Sadja grabbed the bottle, twisted the cap off, and took her first large gulp of the chilled liquid. It burnt down her throat, tore some of the cold with it, and hit her stomach hard.

《 《 The drums beat at the night, clearing the way for hungry souls. With them sang the flutes, bewitching the starry skies to grant a warm night. And between them the strings cried to Hell above, begging it to spare them.

Sadja knew the songs. Had heard them countless times. Knew the dances too, had watched them from afar often enough. Rarely she’d gotten close enough to steal a better glance, and then she’d always had to worry that a Knight might catch her. But she’d tried to memorise the steps anyway, and often pictured her own small feet carrying her over the ground swift and precise, each quick jab of a toe or heel perfect in tune with the music.

It had been a pretty fancy, but a fancy nonetheless. The Ward did not teach their Sare how to dance. It was of no practical use.

Sadja frowned at the spectacle below her, the colorful, wide brimmed skirts dancing around the bonfire. In all her eighteen years, this might have been the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

The fire stood tall in their midst, licking at the skies with greedy flames and casting long shadows into the crowd of dancers. Poles stood erected through the press of bodies, and colourful strips of cloth were stretched between them or flew about the air stirred by hands or caught in a breeze of wind. No one grew tired. Not tonight. They laughed. They roared. Cheerful, soulful roars. Happy. Carefree.

Sadja sucked in her bottom lip.

“Have you ever done any dancing?”

Her fingers twitched at the sound of the Knight’s voice, almost flying up to her arms to tap against the voidmite shackles worked into her. Almost. She’d learned not to do that, it tended to upset them. The shackles and the Knights, both.

She shook her head and looked at him, tried to remember his name. The new guy, the one who’d joined the contingent two nights past. Ceat vil Marrk. From below the Buckle, no doubt, with his perfectly tanned skin and long locks of black hair framing a slender face. Another spoiled child to the aristocracy, bringing honour to his family name by doing the _right_ thing and serving the Ward.

“We don’t have these dances back home,” he said— apparently obviously that he was talking to a shackled Sare— “But my sisters insisted that I learn them before I crossed the Buckle.”

_Good for you._

She didn’t say that of course. You didn’t talk back to the Ward.

“Would you like me to teach you?”

Her neck twitched and she almost choked on her next breath, and he looked all worried when she started coughing.

And then he taught her how to dance. 》》

 _Dip your knee, tilt your shoulders, swing your hip…_ Sadja raised her glass as she danced around the impossible Ceat. A glass, because she couldn’t dance with the heavy bottle, and because she liked pouring it and pretending it’d be the last one.

This one she’d filled to the brim, and she’d barely had a sip, and clear liquid spilled from it the moment she twisted her hip. It went straight through the spectre and wetted the floor. Sadja didn’t care. Even if she splattered the whole bloody bottle over the ground, she really didn’t give a toss. There was another one in the fridge-thing. She could drink that, too. She’d _love_ to, because Elaya have mercy on her, why hadn’t anyone told her that being drunk was so— so—

Liberating.

Sadja let her hips move on their own account, allowed her feet to carry her wherever they so pleased, and howled along to the song she didn’t know the words to.

There was a lot of want for loving in there, with a heart all tied up somewhere, and she loved it and she got it all wrong. But who cared. Certainly not this fledgling Keeper. She got the words out of her cold throat, and when it lined itself with too much ice and the notes wouldn’t come, she’d just have another big swig. And then another. And another. Rise and repeat, it really didn’t matter. Every swig helped.

She’d have liked to convince herself that her feet traced a graceful pattern, but she knew it was a wobbly one instead. Half the time she staggered. The other half she just shuffled like a lame donkey.

But he’d stopped _talking_. Now all he did was stare.

“Don’t do it!” Sadja mocked the world. “Don’t drink! Sadja you canNOT, its bad for you. You’re a Cad-farking-his, and they can’t _drink_ because then they ge’all… oh shit,” she tripped as she closed in on the carpet and only just about caught herself on the couch.

She giggled. Her head spun.

“This is great,” she purred and it took the knock at the door another two times before she noticed it. Her head perked up. Or, well, it jerked one way or the other and then lolled back down.

“Oh. Oh - Ceat, Lover, its time for you to go,” she announced with another giggle and turned on the spot. Ceat, in the meantime, stood quietly, staring at her with that ugly gaping hole in his head bleeding freely.

She marched right through him. It froze the breath in her chest, but it was worth it. He’d be gone soon. All she had to do was open the door and let Redfield in.

“Imma sorry, but I migh-have drunk your stu—“ the door came rushing at her the moment she unlocked it. She barely managed to wobble out of its way, tripped over her own feet, and hit the ground buttocks first. Her feet stretched out and her head knocked against the floor, and then the world spun and tilted as if someone had just decided to lift it and give it all a good shake.

Sadja groaned. She glanced to her left, along her outstretched arm, and found the glass still firmly gripped in her hand. The liquid inside sloshed around, but not a drop was spilled.

“Oh. Oh, I’m good. Who’s good? You’re good. You’re _good_ , Sadja.”

And then her eyes turned up and she stared lamely into the barrel of a gun staring point black at her chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points to whoever figures out what songs the misplaced fledgling Keeper is listening to.


	10. Unhinged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out why Sadja was cautioned against drink, and Redfield finds something he's good at and doesn't quite know what to do with it.

**UNHINGED**

* * *

  **A** n altogether angry gun muzzle jerked up and down in front of her, barking unintelligible words as it bobbed about the place, twitching left and right as it went. Indecisive little thing. Couldn’t make up its mind which one of her ears to point at.  

Sadja puffed out a wheezing laugh, a one-way sort of laugh that hacked itself up her throat and barely made it past her lips. What was it with the thing? Why was it so bloody furious? Even if she didn’t understand a word of its rantings, the tone in which they came delivered was already hateful enough. Downright rude, truth be told.

Though then her wits gathered themselves in a convenient sort of manner, and Sadja realised the lunacy that was a talking gun. She leaned her head to the side and tried to refocus. Up there, looming in her doorway, stood a dark haired, scruffy looking goon. He’d attached himself to the gun with a tight fisted grip, and his mouth was wagging somewhere within the confines of a shaggy, black moustache.

Violence stood written on his forehead, but Sadja thought he also looked terribly thirsty. Lucky for him, she had just the thing.

She lobbed the glass of hard booze at him.

The goon, unimpressed by her generosity, slapped it out of the air with his gun. It shattered somewhere off to the left.  

_Arse…_

Then he leaned forward, still spitting hatred at her, and grabbed a fistful of her hair.

Sadja’s jaw set itself, left her gaping. She felt the ground pressing against her spine, her shoulder blades resting on the cold floor. Felt her feet, heavy and lame, uselessly resting somewhere down the other way.

And she felt the fear. It had a lazy, clumsy stumble to it as it tried to get her attention, to tell her: _This is trouble. Why are you gaping at him? Do something. Move!_

Her chest constricted, squashed by a drunken panic, or pinned hopelessly to the ground by the hatred spilling from the man. Hatred that pelted her soul, all pins and needles made of filth and rot, tainting her as they sunk themselves into her. On the way out, they ripped holes into her, had grown vicious hooks that ripped free in bursts of staggering agony. 

She felt sick. Sick and weak and  _what was she **doing**?_

The hatred sat right up there came with violent intent. Tasted of death, of decay, and came with a persistent retching in the back of her throat that she’d never get used to. And when the goon yanked her to her feet, Sadja found herself drowning in it all.

So she grabbed for his wrist. Tried to keep him from tearing her hair out. Tried keep her legs under her, too. But they didn’t know where to go. Her toes searched for some surface while the world tilted wildly, sent sideways and turning over itself. As if the ceiling would have liked to try itself at being a floor for a change, eager to proof it could do _down_ just as well as it could do _up_.

Her back connected with something solid. Floor— Ceiling— Wall— it didn’t matter. At least it was level and passed for upright, and upright was good.

Sort of.

He hit her. Boxed her right in the stomach with a hard fist, though she didn't have near enough air in her lungs to qualify for having any punched out of her. Neither could she fold forward, since the goon still gripped her hair tight.

“Where is the money,” he demanded. He made the words sound funny, a bit clumsy towards the end like he couldn’t form them quite right, but at least he set the mystery of why he’d come to ruin her dance straight. Ruin her potentially everything. Really.

When she didn't say a thing, because without air it was hard to speak at all, he raised the gun to her head, pressed the cool muzzle of it against her forehead. Right between her eyes, where the metal bit deep.

And then there was clarity. Sudden and out of nowhere, and Sadja took it, thought,  _You’re daft_ at the goon and put together a plan. Least he could have done was to make himself a challenge, no? Make himself a threat. Instead he was being an idiot, and Sadja almost laughed into his scrunched up, bearded face.

First, she’d slap the gun away, since he hadn’t bothered restraining her arms. Then she’d pull herself up by his arms, wrap her legs around his torso. Next she’d twist her hip and—

_Oww…_

Bright, white pain exploded against the back of her eyes the moment she tried to convince her limbs to move. It contorted her spine, twisted it about itself. Wrung her like a wet washcloth, bleeding life out of her.

More hatred. That’s what kept her nailed to the wall. Not the gun. Not his hands. His hatred. It did a prime job, too. Kept her right in place until his fist came around again and connected with her stomach. This time he let go of her hair and she folded forward like a twig snapped in half.

Now Sadja gasped for air. Like she'd forgotten she needed it. 

“Where!”

His shout barely slipped through the ringing in her ears, the high pitched chime that kept her mind flailing uselessly.

He lifted her. Threw her back into the wall. Hit her again. Lifted her again. Then came the muzzle, dug into her temple, twisted her head aside, straining her neck.

_Think. **Do**. Think._

She couldn’t. Every coherent thought burst apart the moment it tried itself at forming, and all she was given was panic.

Panic, and Ceat.

His impossible spectre stood silent witness to her terrible failing. Sadja spotted him by the door, shoulder to shoulder with three more furious men. The one by his left she knew. She’d kicked his groin. Then she’d kicked his chin. Then he’d shot her. Now he spat orders at his friends, had them fan out to turn her crib upside down in search for the treasure she’d nicked.

Sadja’s dry throat heaved for air and fought for words. _Help me,_ she wanted to scream, but all he’d give her was that cruel smile that curled the corners of his pale lips. Even if he’d wanted to, Sadja knew, he wouldn’t. Ceat the Goodman had always been big at reaping what you sow.

Ceat the Defeatist likely shared that sentiment.

And she’d sowed these seeds, alright. Had done so when she’d stolen from them, and then she’d watered them with drink. They’d gone sprouting now, growing all through her crib and eager to turn her into compost.

The goon snatched at her hair, fingers tightly tangled into it. He pulled her from the wall, and Sadja dug her nails into the thick coat on his arm, clung on so he wouldn’t tear her scalp from her head. Her legs still refused to move on their own accord. They dragged uselessly, bare feet sliding across the floor.

She tried to go for his eyes, made to scratch at them, but her muscles spasmed the moment she even thought to lift her other arm. They tore. Her bones creaked. _She creaked_. And then they snapped, and she snapped-- she'd felt it all before-- knew it well, too well-- and Sadja screamed.

Elaya’s sheltering Hem denied her. It shamed her. For her weakness. For her sin. It broke her apart from the inside, much like it had done before.

And out there the goons laughed. Maybe Ceat was laughing along with them, mocking her for how she’d let herself come undone. Another yank at her hair and she was moving, dragged closer to the music by the kitchen counter.

Drums snapped at the air, an irregular, sharp rhythm like a volley fired from a stuttering rifle. Sadja reached for the noise, for the drums and the voice as they neared the counter. She tried to steady herself on the notes, tried to find something to hold onto that would let her head stop spinning and her legs to stop folding.

She missed.

Her chin cracked into the wood. Then her shoulder. Then the back of her head as the goon spun her around. A sheet of darkness settled over her eyes, then burst apart with bright, blinding light. No, of course she’d not be allowed that little bit of peace. That silence. No, she was expected to listen to the laughter carried her way on wings of hatred.

Above her, the air split. A staccato of two gunshots mixed into the beat ripping at her ears.

_Oh._

She’d been shot.

Maybe. Probably. She couldn’t tell, since everything was made of hurt. 

Sadja’s shoulders jerked and she slipped aside. Her stomach heaved. She tasted bile and alcohol. Threw up. Voices knocked against her ears. Loud, _angry_ voices. Shouting.

One goon-- A new one? The same one? She couldn’t tell that, either-- rushed right for her. He grabbed her collar. Wrapped it tight around her neck. Then he pulled her away from the floor, away from her vomit, and up towards her gadget proclaiming that “ _Lonely is the Night, Your demons come to light and your mind is not your own._ ”

Another gunshot cracked through the air. Closer— close enough to ring her ears worse than they’d been already. An acrid scent lifted itself against her nose, filled her throat and lungs.

The world began its descent into nothing, granted her thoughts a moment of clarity. And even that she wasted. Naturally. Her last thought weren’t meant to be of people she loved, but of gigantic boulders crushing her, or of being beheaded or stabbed-- and how she’d always figured she’d get shot, but had never expected herself to be right.

And when she slipped, the cage flew open.

From it fled the beast, a fervour in its roar as it broke from its chains and bounded for the light.

* * *

 **T** hey’d looked up to no good.

Six men had piled out of the van, and five of them had headed straight through the front doors with determination and violence in their steps. At first, Chris had thought himself paranoid. Coincidence, he told himself. No need for alarm. The strange girl wasn’t the only one living in that tall building. There were plenty of tenants between the first floor and the luxury of the penthouse loft she’d claimed.

Not _owned._ Claimed. Did the property owner even know she was up there? Or was she squatting? High class, high risk squatting? He’d not bothered asking.

Chris stopped walking, gave his weary legs a moment of rest while he wondered if she even knew what a _lease_ was. She’d probably pay in cash. Pinch a few bills from the money in her closet, right next to that 911 waiting around for just the right occasion.

Like tonight. That might be an occasion.

Chris felt his stomach sink with a leaden unease and pinched a box of cigarettes from his coat pocket. So, what were the thugs going for? What were they doing here, in the middle of the night, when the only excuse for being out were either: Get shit faced. Get laid. Be a useless, wandering piece of shit. Or be up to no good. He turned all those options around his head head. Flicked his wrist once. Shook a lighter and cigarette from the box.

Practiced. Easy.

What were the chances she’d deserve whatever attention was headed her way?

_Pretty damn up there._

And the chances he’d care?

Chris sighed, got his aching legs moving again. They’d gotten better, by a lot, but his right one still complained after an evening of walking, damaged muscle and sprained tendons throbbing dully whenever he set it down. He’d love a bed about now. Would love a cold beer, too. There’d been altogether too much walking tonight, and not enough sitting in the smokey comfort of a bar. He’d gotten himself lost along the riverbank and then down by tempting train tracks leading god only knew where.

_And now you’re back here. What gives, Redfield?_

He stuffed the cigarette into his mouth, shoved the box back into the pocket, and began fumbling with the lighter.

He made no headway with the stubborn cigarette. Gusts of wind snatched at the meek flame, and he thought he’d likely gotten the whole pack damp when he’d dropped it in the snow earlier.

_That ought to teach you, man. Can’t piss and light a cigarette at the same time._

Chris closed in on the entrance, his head bowed slightly, for all intents and purposes giving off the impression of a man lost to a battle with his vices. His eyes cut up.

Man number six stood flanking the doors, a smartphone in one hand, and scratching at his neck with the other. At his approach he looked up and lowered the phone.

The stubborn cigarette kindled, and Chris took one long drag from it just as he reached the door. He inhaled slowly, a deliberate breath that drew his thoughts together and allowed him focus.

When he made to grab for the door handle, the thug’s posture shifted. An arm came up, discouraging by blocking his path.

“Atvainojiet,” he said. Polite enough, Chris thought. Not friendly, but trying. “Ne tik ātri.”

Of course Chris had no idea what he’d said. Not like he had to. The man made a point by lifting this coat, revealing the butt of a sidearm holstered at his hip. The grab occupied his right hand, while the left still lingered by the phone. Wide open. Clumsy and stupid.

_Right then…_

The motion came quickly, without hesitation. Slide left leg back. Draw the right arm back, too. Twist of the hip.

Practiced. Easy.

It ended in a quick, jerky jab cracking into the thug’s temple. Said thug’s legs collapsed under him a moment later, and Chris had to step forward and heft him against his shoulder before he could crumple on the sidewalk.

Dragging him inside was messy. The lookout wasn’t out cold. He groaned and muttered, his disorientated legs trying to make sense of the floor, and getting in Chris’ way as he propped the door open with the tip of his boot.

 _Let’s rephrase that question from before: What the_ **fuck** _are you doing Redfield?_

Leaning into the door, apparently, and letting it fly open so he could let the thug slide along with it. The man hit the ground face first.

Chris followed, shut the cold out behind them, and scanned the foyer idly for any more movement. Nothing.

On the ground, the man turned himself over. His clumsy hands searched for his gun, but before he could even get them under the tangled coat, Chris crouched by his side and followed up with another jab to the side of his head.

That one stung.

Chris flexed his fingers, tried to shake the sting from his knuckles and wrist, and glanced down at the thug. Out cold, this time. Still breathing. Maybe.

He frowned. Why didn’t that bother him?

It should bother him. Shouldn’t it?

He brought a shaking left hand to his lips, allowed his lack of concern to sink in, and took a long drag from the now bent cigarette. The one sided brawl had almost snapped the thing in half.

His eyes cut back to the still lookout, to where his coat hung open and revealed the handgun tucked into his belt. Chris inhaled again, one more drag in case it was his last, and pulled the sidearm free. 

A readily loaded Makarov. It lay light in his hand, small and compact. Barely worth the mention, really. But the feel of it lined his stomach with an almost gentle unease, stretching itself taught across his insides and turning to a sickly warmth. It felt real. Solid. Not made of wisps of fog drifting between his ears and clouding his mind.

He didn’t like it. Or he did, but didn’t care much to accept that.

_Later. First let’s get you killed, Redfield._

Chris filed the thoughts away and turned to check the Makarov’s magazine. Seven rounds. He racked the slide back. Plus one chambered.

Eight little unpleasantries.

He extinguished the cigarette on the floor, rose to his feet, and took the first of many heavy steps towards the elevator.

_After this, I’m done and gone._

There was only so much redemption a man could strive for without wearing himself out, and he’d been doing good the last few days.

Or so he told himself as the elevator door shuddered open and Chris trapped himself inside. The trip up passed quickly. Too quickly, and then he stepped outside, the Makarov trained down the hall. Practiced. Easy. Like that was what his life amounted to.

He stepped along with it, his eyes cutting down along its sights, and found thug number five.

By her door.

Her wide open door. Loud rock spilled from the loft, filled the hallway wall to wall, and Chris hated himself for being right.  

Thug number five, who’d been staring into the room, noticed the movement from the elevator. He turned. His shoulders twitched and his eyes widened, and then a hand dove for a gun by his side.

_No, you don’t._

Chris squeezed the trigger. Once. Twice.

No need to think. Practiced. Easy.

The shots rang loud, echoed through the narrow corridor, and Billy Squier, loudly declaring this to be a Lonely Night, found himself drowned out by the high pitched ringing in Chris' ears.

Then thug number five dropped and he filed his lack of remorse for that away. Preferably somewhere dark and difficult to reach.

And he kept moving. Kept the Makarov at the ready, elbows tucked in tight, his right arm extending into the steadily weaving barrel of the gun. Practiced. Easy. Was this really him?

The death of thug number five hadn’t gone unnoticed. Chris just about let his coat tail peek into the loft when three ill placed shots peppered the doorframe. Frantic shots. Not well aimed, if aimed at all. Amateurs.

He set his shoulder against the door. Closed his eyes. Exhaled.

When his eyes opened he let himself slide forward and fired blindly into the loft. The thugs scrambled for cover, and Chris was granted a brief moment to take stock.

Three men. Two by the couch. One by the kitchen counter. That one mattered a little more than the others. By a fraction. He'd been dragging Sadja to her feet here. Pulled her up in front of him, held her up. Like a barely moving human shield.

And then things got… weird.

The nausea came first. It had no smell. No taste. Just slammed into him, a tangible urge to vomit that went right for his stomach, wringing it tightly and ever upwards.  A mouthful of vile rot sat between his teeth, like he’d bitten into a side of roadkill, and he almost lost his late night bar snack dinner.

Inside, the three men did not go unaffected. He heard them gag. Saw one fall to his knees.

And then the small radio he’d picked up earlier this morning sputtered, its notes falling to the _Pop-crackle-pop_ of static.

 _Crackle_.

**_Growl_.**

A throaty snarl hacked itself from the speakers, rolled right through him. It scraped at his bones with rough, sharp claws. Broke them open. Sucked the marrow out of them. It told him _Not another step--_ Pack your shit. Turn around. High tail it down the stairs.

And Chris got the message. Crystal clear. He simply chose to ignore it. When the radio got done saying  _Pop_ , and Billy Squier stuttered himself back to life singing of a man on the prowl, Chris took a shaky breath and rounded the corner into the loft, the  sensation of something alien and dangerous still clawing at his gut.

* * *

 **S** adja cowered behind the beast.

She let it rip Elaya’s Hem to shreds around her, let it throw their filthy hatred back at them with enough force to send them stumbling.

Confusion flared brightly out there. Panic. Their feeble souls didn’t know what to make of the predator stalking between them, its claws raking through their insignificant shades and tasting the promise of their demise.

* * *

 **I** t happened quickly.

That stupidly strange girl grabbed the thug’s sleeve tightly. Her right leg snapped up, pushed into his hip. She hooked the other behind his left foot. Tore him off balance. And he fell. The moment he hit the ground, Sadja leapt onto him, a tangle of limbs that snatched forward, all knees and elbows and one tight grab for a fistful of dark hair.

She slammed his head into the ground, and Chris picked up the sickening crunch of bone breaking. Another thing to file away for later, for when he could reflect in silence on how much force it’d take to crack a man’s head open.

The remaining thugs refocused. Their attention snapped to Sadja and their fallen friend, and with them came their guns. They raised them in sluggish unison, and Chris lined up his next shot.

He clipped thug number three in the shoulder. _Missed._ Got number two twice in the chest when he turned to face the gunfire instead.

 _Empty_ , Chris counted. The slide on the Makarov locked open, confirming that it had just turned useless. He threw it to side.

By the time it clattered to the floor, Sadja had crossed the distance to thug number three. The man had barely regained his composure, and had just enough time to bring his arm up so she could slap the weapon he pointed at her aside.

She drove a fist into his diaphragm and let him fold forward. Then she slid forward, reached around his neck with one hand to cup his chin in her hand— and twisted her body around him.

Easy. Practiced. A dancer wrapping herself around her pole.

The thugs neck followed her as he pivoted around his axis. But necks were not meant to bend that way, and when he hit the ground, he also stayed there.

Chris watched her catch her momentum with an extended arm and come to a halt by the dead man. She glanced down. Tilted her head. Once left, once right— and then up towards the wide window with her reflection staring back at her. She froze. Her chin came up, jutted forward as if to challenge herself through the glass. But then her eyes flicked to the side and caught his reflection behind her shoulder. Her brows pinched. He could see her jaw flex, her teeth grinding. Could see her breathing slow.

Chris blinked and stood a little straighter.

_What the actual fuck?_

When she turned around and started walking towards him, Sadja swayed with each step. It wasn’t a clumsy sway, but a deliberate one. Her hips followed a rhythm not far removed from the music still blaring from the radio, but just enough out of tune to not quite fit. “Red lights, Green lights…” Billy Squier sung, while she stepped around the body crumpled at her feet.

Her eyes cut from one thug to the other, then back at him, and she sniffed with her lips drawn back into a thin, pale line. A smile curled one corner of them. A smile that told him she expected him on that floor, too.

He’d have much rather preferred the quiet, curious stare she’d reserved for him so far. The one that made her look like she’d ask him why he’d stuffed his clothing into _the round rumbly thing_ while she’d stood in front of the, up until then unused, washing machine in her bathroom.

And because that stare of hers wouldn't quit, Chris decided to take a step back.

“You’re welcome,” he said, hoping she’d take that and it’d be settled and she’d stop looking at him like he was competition that needed eliminating. Or a dinner that needed having. He didn’t really feel like _being_ dinner.

His hands came up, but his hope withered against the tilt of her head, and the slow, calculated prowl into his direction, one light step after the other.

_Well, shit. You're in trouble, Redfield. What are you gonna do?_

* * *

 **H** e’d not been worthy, not earned the right. How _dare_ he sully her. How dare he, such a base, simple creature, set her ablaze. She balled her right hand into a fist and stalked closer. Every step burnt. Each step she took only singed her worse, the pain maddening her and driving her forward.

He backed away. Useless words came up his throat and his tongue wagged along with them. She paid them no heed. Didn’t understand them. Didn’t want to, or need to. She considered to tear his tongue out though. Make him stop talking, because it annoyed her, and she didn’t like things that annoyed her.

Sadja stepped closer, and the heat turned to the unbearable. She ground her teeth and faltered.

 _Stop,_ the soft and gentle and altogether idiotic part of her insisted, but the beast would not listen.

It’d show him. It’d set this straight.

It rushed him.

He stepped from her path. More words. So _boring_! She wove around him, tried to get at his back, where she could snatch at his neck and tear him down. But he turned with her.

_Come on. Stop._

No. She wouldn’t. It wouldn't Couldn't. She-it-they darted in, aimed a quick jab at his side. His forearm came up. Deflected the strike.

Scalding hot— scorching her.

She yelped. Withdrew.

 _You’re going to get burnt,_ she warned herself. The beast hissed. She hissed. They hissed. They snapped a knee up to crack it into his hip, and he slapped that away, too. Child’s play. The oaf was getting them and he was getting them good, and the beast fell forward with rage, blindly leaping into the fire.

* * *

 **W** hatever grace she’d shown before was long gone, replaced by something far less effective. Anger. Rage. Things so blind they had her dart in without much heed the third time around.

He directed her next rush to the side, wrapped both arms around her torso, and trapped her own against her side. Then he dragged her back into his chest and held her with her feet wildly kicking off the floor.

She cried out, a shrill cry of pure agony as if he’d just stabbed her. Repeatedly.

_What now?_

She kicked again. Let out another shriek, and he figured that about now the whole fucking building was awake— in-between the gunshots and her howling there couldn’t be a soul possibly still asleep.

Which really meant he had to get out of here. And stat. Like right now. Screw her. This was her mess. 

 _Lock her in the bathroom— lock her in th—_ her forearms snapped up. Pushed at his elbows. Not much, but just enough to give her wiggle space. She was strong, unexpectedly so, and Chris knew what was coming and still couldn’t stop her.

He cursed through clenched teeth as she twisted her hip to the right, sliding past him, and snuck a leg around his. Her knees dipped. She dropped. Not by much. Just enough. A nimble little fucking thing that grabbed for his knee and yanked him off balance, sent him falling backwards.

They both went. Chris barely managed to keep one arm around her neck to pull her along.

Strong. Nimble. Light as a feather too, but that didn’t stop her from knocking the air from his lungs when she landed on top of him. He wheezed and tightened the grip around her neck. Placed the other hand against her head, holding it still, and locked her kicking legs with his.

“Calm the fuck down,” Chris hissed at her when he felt confident he had enough air in his lungs, but she only struggled harder. Her screeching was interrupted by alien words that he figured were colourful curses aimed at him. They were fighting words, regardless. She wasn’t begging to be let go. Likely telling him she’d tear his balls off or stuff a cactus up his—

“Oh... shut... up...” He tightened the grip around her neck and started counting.

 _One… Two…_ She arched her spine, slammed back into him. Winded him. Again.

 _Three… Four…_ She banged her fists into the floor, then pummelled them at every bit of him she could reach. That sort of hurt.

 _Five… Six…_ Her hands clawed at his arms. They would have been peeling the skin off him if he hadn’t been wearing the coat.

 _Seven… Eight…_ She went for his head instead, but her efforts were clumsy now, weaker. They barely left a scratch.

_Nine… ten…_

And she was out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've come a long way since I originally wrote this. Just today I compared this edited chapter with some of Latchkey Hero, my Dying Light fic, and I am ecstatic about how much I improved since last year. 
> 
> Why put it up like this then, Taffer-- and not rewrite the whole of Valiant Remedy? Because I don't want to totally throw it out the window as it is. It has got its charm, and I hope to see the progression of my improvement as I edit my way through the rest.


	11. Plain Sailing Weather (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sadja makes a new experience, and Chris tries himself at walking away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tre and Ro, Elaya's twin sons are known for their mischief and violence, unlike their gentle and caring mother. A curse will be spoken on them if terrible things are meant to happen to a person, or if you're really feeling like you're out of luck.

**PLAIN SAILING WEATHER**

**(1)**

* * *

 

Sadja woke to Tre dancing in her skull while Ro led his brother on with the sharp snap of drums. They beat all manners of regrets into her with that vicious rhythm of theirs and had her very much wishing she’d stayed unconscious.

Forever.

 _Let’s not do this again,_ she told herself. Drunk wasn’t her thing. Or rather, the aftermath of it really didn’t sit right with her. All death and regrets and a whole lot of promise she’d never do it again.

How’d people do it? How’d they go about drinking themselves into a day of misery? Her ‘Da had done it often enough. She remember the mornings, how he nursed himself through the aftermath of a long night. Pointed at her with a shaking finger, blaming her for having to drink himself unconscious. She’d never understood, and she still didn’t. Especially not right now, with her skull pounding and a stale and terrible taste on her tongue. Her throat hurt, too.

“Well done, Sadja,” she told herself and winced. Speaking hurt, like she’d decided to hack up razorblades one bit at a time. On second thought, her whole bloody throat was sore, both inside and out. A steady phantom pressure pushed against her windpipe and she found it difficult to swallow.

“Hnngh?”

She moved to touch the tender skin under her chin, but the moment she tried to lift her arms, her right wrist caught itself on something sharp and solid and had itself tugged back down.

Sadja’s eyes fluttered open. Above her, a plain cracked ceiling in dirty white stared down at her. Long shadows ran across of it, forming a pattern against gently shifting layers of dim light. She craned her neck to the side, let her sore dry and swollen eyes travel along the length of her arm to find her wrist.

“Huh—”

Shackles. Slim, silver restraints kept her right hand tied to a wooden bedpost above her head. She furrowed her brow, which caused quite a bit of stir inside her skull, and stared at the irons snagged around her wrist. A tentative twist revealed that they weren’t just a figment of her imagination, but very much real.

“Oh.”

There came last night, trotting lazily from her mind, and bit by bit the memories of last night fitted themselves together. An alternative revealed itself to her, a theory other than too much drink, one that explained the aching muscles, how tender her throat felt, and why she’d found herself chained to a bed. The headache, now that she could blame on the liquor. The rest?

She sat up straight and cast a look about the small room. Old, washed out green wallpaper with a pattern of light swirls and loops served as a backdrop to the rest of her surroundings. A few bits of rundown furniture had collected itself around the single, narrow bed with fresh white linen and a too soft mattress. There was also a window, covered with thick plain brown curtains, and in front of it stood an uncomfortable looking recliner with a sleeping Redfield sprawled on it. To his right stood a small round table. On it lay one of her sidearms.

_Well, no. Technically it’s probably his._

“Oh,” she repeated and looked at the shackles again. Gave them a careful tug. They clicked softly.

She’d attacked him. That explained the whole deal, irons and all. So Sinvik had been right. _Everyone_ had been right. A _Cad’his_ had no reason to get herself drunk, since it’d just end in tears. Or something worse, present company being a prime piece of evidence to the case.

Sadja lifted the linen from her, and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. No shoes. Pants still where she left them though, along with her top. It all felt a little clammy and filthy, sticking to her skin layered in a night’s worth of sweat that begged to be scrubbed clean.

“Bloody damn,” she whispered and let her eyes flick idly left and right while she fitted more of last night together in an attempt to shape a coherent memory. She had just started trying to drag a particular stubborn image from her sluggish mind that involved her mistreatment of a perfectly fine glass of clear liquor, when her eyes caught a glimpse of a bathroom through the slightly ajar door across of her.

She shuffled her legs. A bathroom would be nice. Necessary, too.

Sadja craned her neck to the side, threw another look at the sleeping Redfield with his shoulders rising and falling steadily. She sniffed.

Had his intentions been to keep an eye on her from over there? To watch her, make sure his interim prisoner didn’t go about any funny business? If so, then he was doing a lousy job, and Sadja was of half a mind to educate him on the finer points of keeping fledgling Keepers in check.

She scooted up along the bed, took a closer look at the shackles. Simple things, with a keyhole at the flat end by her wrist. Another quick look around revealed a bedside lamp, and how the cable attached to it was bound to the foot of the table with wire. Wire would do just fine.

Sadja worked the shackles off. They came off clean and quick, and the feel of them falling from her wrist was almost as pleasant as the moment she spared to stretch her tense muscles. Her spine gave a series of pleasant pops as she arched her back, and her neck followed suit as she rolled it generously. Now all she needed was to get cleaned up and she’d be set for… whatever it was she’d think of next.

_Getting out of this town, how about that?_

She padded towards the bathroom.

_Eat first though._

Her stomach rumbled in agreement. Halfway to the door, two familiar looking duffle bags caught her attention. They lay stacked against a wall, with her coat folded carelessly next to them. Sadja stopped to open both.

“Good man,” she whispered.

He’d filled one with the money, and stuffed most of her clothing into the other, piled it all together in neat, but evidently hurried chunks. Even his gadget had found itself swept along, still safely tucked away in the pocket of her coat where she’d stuffed it after Nivans’ unexpected call.

She tossed a look over her shoulder at the sleeping Redfield. Not faking it either, judging by how the smouldering Furnace burnt hot, but steadily, not lashing out at her as she slipped from her gates for a closer look.

Good. She wasn’t quite ready to spin up any lies for him.

Sadja excavated something suitably warm to wear from the bag, and with a set of pants and a long sleeved sweater squeezed under her arm, continued her journey towards the promise of hot water and a good scrub.

Turned out hot water wasn’t meant to be.

Warmish, maybe. Tepid, more like. Three minutes in, and it turned nippy. A moment later she might as well have been rolling about in a pile of snow, and with the strange lemon scent of soap still clinging to her, Sadja rushed from the shower, her teeth chattering wildly. She stumbled through the small bathroom while her hands rubbed vigorously at her arms, and informed the still sputtering shower just how far up to _Hell_ it could go hiking and how a Reaper could take a proper long shit on it once there.

She dressed, shoved the warm clothes onto her clammy skin, and kept on muttering curses as she stepped through the door.

Redfield had moved from the recliner to sit on the bed. The sidearm had tagged along too, and Sadja didn’t really like where the muzzle was pointing. It wasn’t aimed at her. No. Not really. It just lay on his thigh, looking at her. Sadja thought it might have been squinting.

“What did you just say?” Redfield asked and she diverted her attention away from the muzzle. Yes. Squinting. Definitely. _I-got-my-one-evil-eye-on-you-Missy_ sort of squint.

“Ah-huh? I— you mean back there?” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder.

He nodded.

Sadja chewed on her bottom lip as she tried to translate the last _Arec_ insult she’d spat at the shower. It made little sense word by word. _You drape the genitals of your father through your hair_ really didn’t have a good ring to it. Sounded almost polite, too. She’d not been feeling polite.

“Knobhead?”

Yeah. That seemed about right.

Redfield quirked an eyebrow at her. “You called me a Knobhead last night.”

Sadja winced. She’d said a whole lot worse, she remembered. But that wasn’t really where he was going, was it?

“And you tried to kill me.”

More to the point.

Sadja flexed her fingers. The tic didn’t go by unnoticed, and Redfield patted the sidearm on his thigh. Just a little reminder, she figured. Keep your hands to yourself, and stay where you are.

Now what?

_Look, I’m sorry. I was drunk. But you know how it is, mh?_

Sadja let her eyes fall to the duffle bags. At any other day she might have been perfectly fine with playing a little dirty to get from between that muddy blue stare and a truth she couldn’t explain, but not today. He’d come to her rescue. You didn’t go agitate someone who boxed you out of trouble.

“And yet you went out of your way to pack for me and tuck me in all nice,” she said as she flicked icy cold and lemon scented water from her hair.

The Furnace lashed at her gates and pinched at the bridge of his nose. Poor sod. All confused. Didn’t know what to do with himself, let alone with her, that kooky, murderous thing.

“That was awfully considerate of you, Redfield.”

“Yeah…” he muttered and got to his feet.

The room was already on the smaller end of things, a box just big enough for the both of them, but his broad shouldered frame made it shrink together some more as he walked one towards her. Sadja had to fight the urge to back away. It wouldn’t do to make him think he scared her. Which he didn’t, not really. The heat nuzzling up against her gates was what got her, but she stood her ground, squeezed her shoulder-blades together and tilted her chin up to stare at him.

He returned the stare flatly and stopped just short of bumping into her. A whiff of the same lemony hotel soap and a hint of rainy days hung between them. Earthy, sharp and clean.

 _Suits you better than all the cold smoke and stale alcohol,_ she thought.

A slight, thoughtful frown creased his forehead. His jaw twitched.

So many words, Sadja mused, all jumbled up in that clouded head of his. She’d have liked to hear them… the threats, the apologies, the questions, all of it. But he remained quiet as he grabbed her hand and pressed the sidearm into her palm like some weighty present of sorts.

“Good luck,” Redfield finally said and turned away from her.

He left her standing with the weapon weighing down her hand, and with her eyes flicking between the still warm piece of murder, to the man replaying the scene of getting his coat.

He’d perfected it.

Got it down to the last detail, with a lazy roll of his shoulder and a casual toss of the coat tail for a finish. Lastly he hoisted up his pack, the same grubby thing he’d dragged with him the first night she’d met him.

Sadja sighed. She let the weapon slide off her fingers and onto the beside table, and stared at it. Her chest acted up. It tightened, as if her ribcage had decided to close in on her lungs.

Panic.

_Oh bollocks, what now?_

There they were, one stray thought after the other, all insisting that she ought to be dreading the moment he stepped through that door. The one bulling itself to the top was the one of the impossible Ceat and his inevitable return, of his icy touch and his words cutting at her soul.

But this fledgling Keeper had her pride. She wouldn’t beg.

“You should probably leave,” Redfield said, one hand on the door handle and the other dipping into his coat pocket to fish out a jingling bundle. He chucked it through the air and she caught it with a swipe of her hand.

Keys. The keys to her crib, the ones she’d given him so he wouldn’t have to go rap his knuckles sore on it while he stood drunk off his arse on the door mat.

They’d gotten company, too. A short, stubby thing had joined them, a picture of a lion of sorts printed on it.

“There’s a white van parked outside,” he continued while she studied the lion thing. It looked odd. “Just… just take it and get out of here. This might be a big city, but I wouldn’t outstay my welcome if I was you.”

Sadja agreed fully. She had no intention to stay another night. But…

“What—“ Her brow pinched and she looked up at him. “What’s a van?”

* * *

“What’s a van?” Chris repeated and she simply nodded one of her curt little nods. Not a hint of deceit in her light brown eyes. Not a glint of jest either. He felt his hand drop off the door handle.

She was being dead serious.

“It’s a car,” he offered and her head gave a slight tilt to the side.

“I don’t know how those work.”

“You don’t know how to drive a car,” he echoed. Another nod. Quick, too, like the whole damn rest of her. Brisk and fleeting was what she was made of. Her smiles, her nods. The sharp shakes of her head when she had no fucking clue what he was talking about. The faint tilts of her head, the ones that held confusion, amusement, amazement — they spoke volumes on their own if caught in time.

Chris rubbed at the nape of his neck.

 _Don’t,_ he told himself. And for once he listened.

“Then you best figure it out. Shouldn’t take you too long, you’re a smart girl.”

With an effort of will he lifted his hand again and pushed down the door handle to flee into a narrow and musty hallway.

 _Done and gone. That is what you said Chris,_ he reminded himself and hurried from the building.

Once outside, he headed straight across the parking lot of what passes for a European wayside motel. A good a place as any to lay low, or so Chris had thought when he’d driven through the night in search of a rock to crawl under while an unconscious Sadja lay on the back seats. He couldn’t have left her at the loft. It hadn’t felt right to leave her lying there.

Even after he’d made sure he hadn’t killed her. What if she’d never wake up? What if he’d done too much damage already and starved her brain of oxygen even a second too long?

 _You don’t go around choking people, Chris—_ That’s what he’d told himself while his brain had kicked him around the loft, made him stuff her clothing into a bag and shovel all the money he could fit into another.

_It’s dangerous. It’s rude._

Well, so was attacking him. Trying to kill him, even. That’s what it had looked like anyway, at least from where he’d been standing.

But he couldn’t have left her there.

No.

The cuffs he’d found in the van had helped ease his mind a little. Though then he snapped one around her slim wrist and cuffed her to the bed, and that had made him feel all manners of scummy. He’d pulled the blanket up over her. Stared at her. Checked the restraints to see if they weren’t too tight. Then checked them again to tighten them a little more anyway. Just in case.

After that he’d paced the small hotel room for what could have been half an eternity, then showered for another half, and finally sat himself on the recliner staring at his prisoner before the apprehension finally decided to settle.

Of course she’d slipped them while he drifted in and out of a fitful sleep. Couldn’t blame him for trying though.

_… and then she goes ahead and pretends nothing ever happened._

The sleepy looking place he’d decided to hide them in turned out a lot more busy during the day than at night. Traffic rolled steadily through the street in front of it, and the sidewalks had filled with people. Chris crossed to the other side of the street and headed for a small tobacco store that sat between a row of shops and restaurants. A bell chimed with his entrance, and a round shouldered grey haired woman with a weathered face and drab brown clothing looked up from a newspaper she’d been reading by the counter.

He dug into his coat, produced a cleanly folded pair of paper bills. His compensation, he liked to think. He’d earned it for his trouble, Sadja wasn’t about to miss a few bundles from her already unnecessarily big pile of cash. It wouldn’t last him very long, but until then he might as well restock on the essentials; Five packs of cigarettes, a new lighter, and a few scratch lottery cards he grabbed at the last moment. He kept one pack of cigarettes at the ready as he left the shop and set himself out for a day of walking. He’d head South. Towards the border, maybe. Or just walk to the next town over. A smaller one, maybe. Something with less noise. Less people.

_That’ll be a lot of walking._

He grunted at the prospect of it, still feeling the ache in his right light, but it’d beat sitting around with the aftermath of what he’d done last night gnawing at his heels.

Chris let his legs start moving, and his fingers work on coaxing a cigarette from the fresh pack. By the time he’d gotten the plastic peeled off, his eyes caught the by now familiar shape of Sadja stumbling from the motel. She carried one duffle slung over each shoulder and was moving with jerky, hectic steps across the parking lot.

A few feet from the door she stopped and scanned along the row of parked cars, before her head snapped around to stare at the entrance behind her. Chris let the plastic wrapper fall from his fingers and pinched a cigarettes from the pack.

Sadja dropped one of the bags. She twisted away from the entrance. Shied like a horse from a loud noise. Her right hand came up and pointed at nothing, then dove back down and snatched the bag up to haul it along with her as she hurried away from the motel.

Peculiar, that’s what she was. _Insane,_ he added.

Chris lit the cigarette. He walked along with her on his side of the street, watched how she turned her head left and right, and occasionally behind her where she stared at a patch of empty asphalt. Her lips moved, but traffic and the chatter of morning commuters droned out her words.

He’d stopped asking himself _What’s she doing?_ once she’d made it halfway across the lot and found the only white van parked by the far end of it. The bags thumped to the floor and she stood by the passenger door with her hands rubbing at her neck.

Chris took a drag from the cigarette, leaned his shoulder against a street sign. One hand darted into her coat and pulled out the key. She looked at it, and fitted it into the lock. The fob had a remote on it too, but she didn’t seem any the wiser about that. Then again she didn’t know how to drive the thing. So he really shouldn’t have been surprised by that.

Chris quirked an eyebrow at her twisting the key around and struggling with the handle. It took her a few tries, and once the door popped open she stuck her head inside the van and stayed like his long enough for him to get three drags in.

After she’d concluded her inspection of the vehicle, Sadja took a step back and lifted both her hands to rub at her throat. Chris winced. He’d seen the angry red bruise earlier, how it had started turning an ugly purple just below her chin. She’d looked miserable. Cold, too— with her lips pale and blue and her hair in a matted, wet mess. It had almost been enough to get him to reconsider his carefully planned retreat. The one that went right out the door and far away as his legs might carry him.

Almost.

Sadja rocked back and forth on her heels for a good minute, in which Chris burnt through half his cigarette, before finally hopping into the van and out of sight.

He sighed.

What were the chances she _really_ didn’t know how to drive a car? Chris looked left and right. _’Don’t,’_ he insisted, but that thought bouncing uselessly between his ears went unheard as he crossed the street and headed for the van.

* * *

Sadja looked at the wheel in front of the other seat.

“Huh,” she mused at it before climbing over the centre console to squeeze herself behind it.

These things weren’t horses. More like coaches, really, except no reins or tethers. Just a wheel to turn left and right and— she peered around. Pedal things at her feet.

_This is ridiculous. We’re not gonna learn how to ride this thing. I don’t have the faintest where to even start. What was I thinking?_

She leaned into the seat. She felt small inside of it, with her feet barely reaching to the floor, and her eyes just about cresting the metal beastie’s nose.

“You’ve got an idea?” Sadja asked the impossible Ceat as he hovered outside the vehicle. He stood in silence, his eyes turned down toward her, his lips pale and cracked. “Least you could do is give me a hand here, mh? I promise it’ll be fun.”

She placed her hands on the wheel and peered between her knees at the pedals. What could they possibly be for? Coaches had a brake you could step on, but there were three of them.

“So?” she prompted, glanced to her left, but found Ceat gone. He’d left behind a hint of his frozen breath, a sliver of white crystallising against the glass.

“Arse,” Sadja hissed. He wasn’t far, she figured. Just out of sight, but never out of mind, and ready to stick his cold, dead face into hers when she was at least expecting it. Frustrated, the fledgling Keeper dropped her forehead against the wheel.

 _HOOOOOOOOOONK_ the vehicle went and she jolted back into the seat, hands flying off the wheel and heart racing up a staccato. A startled yelp died halfway up her sore throat and turned into a hoarse curse instead. This wasn’t going to work. You didn’t just _learn_ things out of no-where. She didn’t even know where to _start_. And if — oh fuck what now…

Another loud sound tore her from her self pity. Metal sliding smoothly over metal just behind her, followed by a thud that sent the whole vehicle shuddering. Sadja whipped around in the seat, just in time to see her duffle bags sailing into the back, followed by a familiar knapsack.

“You found the horn. Good start,” Redfield stated all matter of fact. Or maybe there was a smidgen of droll in there. She couldn’t quite tell. Even his humour had a case of the grumpy most of the time.

Sadja exhaled steadily and ran a quick count from twelve to zero. Her heart settled into an acceptable pace and her stomach unknotted from the tight ball of agitation it felt the need to curl into whenever Ceat was near. When she opened her eyes again, Redfield was giving her a deadpan look through the window.

 _Thank you,_ is what she wanted to say. “Ha-Ha,” is what she actually managed.

He opened the door and leaned into the compartment.

“Keys,” he demanded.

Sadja gaped at him.

“The keys,” he repeated and his fingers twitched while he held out his palm.

She complied and dropped the set he’d thrown at her earlier into his waiting hand. He bounced them up and down once and then, without warning, grabbed her left knee.

Her leg twitched and she sat bolt upright.

“One foot on the pedal on the left,” he said and pushed her leg forward, pressing warmth into her skin. Not burning her though— not singing her like he’d done last night. Just warm. So warm, like someone had wrapped her knee in sunlight.

She complied and set her foot down. His hand moved. Pushed against her other knee.

“Middle.”

Sadja did as told, and Redfield leaned over her, had her squeeze herself into the seat trying to keep well away from him. He ate up the air around her, and she took a nose full of him. Less cheap soap. Sharp, fresh tobacco. And a whole lot more rainy days.

She held her breath. His shoulder sat close to her chest and she could count the small hairs at the base of his nape, could make out the details on the stubble of his chin. How it wasn’t quite cleanly tended. Like he’d been clumsy about the trim on it.

He glanced at her. His right brow rocked up into his forehead.

“You listening?”

“Mh.”

“What?”

Sadja frowned. “Yes. I’m listening. Of course I’m listening. What are you doing here, weren’t you going somewhere?”

_Will you shut up?_

Redfield puffed air at her, and at her gates stood faint amusement. Very much alight, but definitely tickled. It didn’t last, or lead to a smile of any degree, but she liked to think he was okay with her jab and didn’t mind it as he turned his attention back to showing her how to treat big white metal beasties.

His went for one of the sticks in the centre console and gave that a tug. Then the second stick received a testing wobble, before he jammed the key into a fitting slot at the base of the wheel. One glance at her feet (to see if they were still there, she figured) and he turned said key. The beastie gave a slight shudder and whine, then fell silent again. He grunted and twisted the key again, holding it in place longer. Shudder. Whine. And then a rhythmic rumble plagued by the occasional stutter.

_I could ‘ave done that…_

“You can lift your feet now.”

Sadja did as told again, and Redfield retreated from the van-thing to watch his handiwork while leaning just by the door. Or watched her, rather. Skeptically.

“What now?” she asked him while tentatively wrapping her hands around the wheel.

“Now you ride shotgun. You are not driving.”

Yeah. There was most definitely a hint of grouchy humour in there. On her expense no less.

“Shotgun?”

She looked at him, watched his mouth work silently for a heartbeat before he breathed an annoyed “Scoot.”

No one had ever said the fledgling Keeper was a bad listener. Or maybe they had. Yeah. They had. Often. Though at times she could be quite obedient. You just had to know how to ask. Sadja pulled her feet up and climbed over the centre console while Redfield closed the sliding door he’d pulled open at the back. It rocked the whole beastie and she was fairly certain he didn’t have to slam it that hard. But there was as boiling mess pushing in front of him, a full out war he waged with himself. It had diminished in here, while he’d worked the beastie and showed her what to do, but now that he’d gotten himself moving again it was back in full force, showed itself in the tension of his jaw and made itself heard at the feet of her gates as the battle lines inched ever closer.

Half of him wanted to leave, the other wanted to stay and they were having a merry good time tearing themselves to ribbons. Sadja kept her eyes focused on him as he sat down. He fit better behind the wheel than her. Before he did anything else he quickly reached to his left and pulled a belt across his torso that he slid into a clip on his right.

_Safety first. Cute._

A quick glance at her indicated she should be doing the same, and Sadja searched her corner of the world for something similar.

_Easy enough._

Happy with her being properly strapped in, Redfield set the vehicle into motion — and Sadja watched him like a most attentive hawk. The sort that was really hungry and found itself a tasty fat mouse scurrying through the fields below. Except she wasn’t about to do any swooping or clawing or unnecessary biting.

_That’d be rude._

She just took note of what he did. Push down one of the two sticks in the centre console, drag the other to the side and up. His feet moved too, alternating between what pedal he stepped on, though that really just confused her. And the wheel, well he steered with that. Naturally. One hand gripped it lazily at its crest and that's how he got the beastie turning once it began a steady roll forward.

“Where are we going?” Redfield interrupted her stare with a quick glance her way before he pulled the beastie into the street.

_Oh._

“I might not have thought that far yet,” Sadja admitted.

“South then,” he muttered. “We’ll pick up a map on our way out of town.”

“We can’t leave yet.”

“What?”

“I need to get back to the crib.”

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

Was that a twinge of concern? Might have been, though it also passed for a decent load of irritation.

“Because a girl needs her things, Redfield. You’ve been a star, but you forgot something dear and near to me that I am not leaving without.”

“Yah-ha, then I might just leave without you,” he challenged her.

“No, you won’t.” _You won’t, will you?_

He grunted in response but didn’t argue. Good too, because Sadja _really_ didn’t want to leave without her _barr_. She could have done without the journal she’d just started, with only a handful of memories collected inside, but the leash she needed. And wanted. No way she’d leave without Sinvik’s precious gift.

“Okay then. But I am not going back there—“

“You don’t have to. Get us decently close. I’ll take care of it and you can get a map. And… and maybe some breakfast? I’m starving.”

“Don’t push it,” he warned and Sadja offered his sideway glare a sheepish smirk in return. It softened the glower and he let out a drawn out sigh of defeat.

_You’re on a roll, girl._

“What are you going to do if the place is crawling with police? Or more of your friends from last night?”

“I suppose I’ll have to find out, mh?”

“Not one for planning far ahead, are you?”

“No, Sir.”

That earned her a smile, and Sadja rather liked it. It wasn’t a bright one, or a strong one. It just about bloomed before the scowl wrestled its way back onto his face. The smile suited him better, she thought. She’d have to fix that, make sure he did more of that and less of the glowering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This used to be the first half of a 10k word chapter. I used to have no sense for consistency. Silly Taffer.


	12. Plain Sailing Weather (2)

**PLAIN SAILING WEATHER**

**(2)**

* * *

  **T** urned out Sadja hadn’t had any reason to worry about an authority of sorts lying in wait for her at the crib. No goons, either. Maybe she’d missed them both, she thought as she stood by the threshold of what had been her door for a little while, her eyes lingering on a stain of blood by her shoes. There’d been a half hearted attempt to mop it up, but a thin, dry crust still clung to the tiled floor.

This one hadn’t been on her. Must have been Redfield then.

The fledgling Keeper winced. Last night hadn’t been fair on him. She might have been fine. Or she might have died. Regardless, it had been _her_ trouble in the making, not his. That made it her responsibility and her mess to deal with. Yet he’d stepped in. Killed on her behalf, no less.

 _He was a soldier,_ she tried to bargain with herself. _Yes, a soldier. Not a killer,_ she insisted. And he’d fled his duty, hadn’t he? Left it all behind for a bit of peace between hangovers.

 _”I told you that you’d bring him to ruin. You should have listened,”_ the impossible Ceat added fuel to the fire. You’d think the words would have dulled their edges by now, considering how often he repeated them, but they still delivered an impressively sharp cut even now.

“Shut up,” Sadja hissed and stepped over the threshold. Ceat followed, an ever cold presence at her back with his words for knifes at the ready. The place was a mess. A draft whistled past her. There were holes in the windows and more in the walls, and what hadn’t been shot up had been tossed about properly, by whoever had gone through her leftover things in search for treasures. They’d not cared a lick for the _barr_ draped over the back of the sofa though, and why-ever should they? It was just a piece of cloth. Not a very pretty one either, in its plain light brown colour and the bits of red woven in. Sadja looped it around itself before tying it to her belt. Her neck tingled with anticipation, eager to feel the light warmth and enjoy the silence it brought. But not yet. Later. When she was out.

Her journal was still where she left it too, snuggly hidden under the carpet since she couldn’t really let Redfield find it and read all about himself in there. That might just get to his head. She tucked it into her coat and made for the door.

* * *

 **T** rouble waited downstairs. And it came in an unlikely pair.

At first, Sadja thought she’d imagined it as she climbed the stairs down. Not the box going up and down. _”Elevator,”_ Redfield had said. _”It’s an elevator. Jesus Christ…”_ Cue the muttering and a sceptical pinch of his brow, and then he’d moved on with his life again, like she’d never even faced him with her insanity.

She didn’t like the thing. Especially not with Ceat filling it with his icy mists. So she’d made her way down the stairs, her stomach rumbling loudly with each step, and almost dismissed the faint tickle at the edges of her awareness as she neared the bottom floor. It took her a moment to realise she’d not been conjuring up that feeling, held on to a phantom sensation that had dictated her life for as long as she’d remembered. A wishful sort of thinking thing.

Sadja paused her steps, braced herself against the cool wall of the stairwell, and stared at the door that’d lead her into the foyer. Past that thing stood a kindred soul, at least in make, if not in alignment and purpose. A Sare. He or she wasn’t trying to hide themselves, but stood flaunting their soul like a cheap woman flaunted her goods down at the water canals in Carran.

 _Look at me,_ it pronounced.

After a moment of disbelief, Sadja’s thoughts decided to come rushing forward and tripped over each other in excitement.

Had Sinvik found her? Had she done the impossible and sniffed her out despite the Cataract’s stubborn rules?

No. Couldn't be. It wasn’t _her_ out there, that much Sadja knew. She could tell the Keeper from anyone, could taste the smoky touch of her soul and discern its feathery touch from that of any other Sare.

But still. Maybe she’d sent someone for her. Someone to bring her home. Miracles happened, after all. She’d seen her fair share of them, and sometimes they even happened to fledgling Keepers.

 _”You’re fooling yourself,”_ Ceat insisted, but she wanted to prove him wrong.

Excitement rolled ahead of her as she padded down the last few steps and nudged open the door.

Ceat laughed. Her heart sank, and the tally of their score climbed to an impressive _Sadja, 0_ \- _Ceat, 10ish?_ She’d stopped counting.

The tall man stood with his back straight, and his hands folded in front of him, was the farthest thing removed from a miracle that she could imagine. Sleek, jetblack hair crowned a long, clean shaven face, and bright green eyes lifted lazily towards her when she stepped into view. He inclined his head in polite greeting, and let his lips turn up in one of the smuggest smiles Sadja had ever seen.

_That hair. Elaya have mercy, did you get licked by a horse?_

Torrian Thunderstep was his name, and he belonged to the Nightingale.

 _Gale…_ Sadja bristled. What was her henchman doing here? No, _How_ was he? How had he? _Why_?

She frowned at him, let the questions do their thing in her head, and ignored them while she took stock of him.

Torrian wore a fitted and narrow coat in pale grey, adorned with a layer of patterned leather cresting his shoulders and running along the seams. The coat bulged suspiciously at his hip. Armed. A sword, most like. He’d never been one for wielding firearms, C.R.A.D.L.E made or not.

It was trouble number two that drew her attention away though, and it came just as unexpected as the Sare had.

Where Torrian met her with silence and allowed her a moment to process what was about to come, Nivans went straight to the point.

He didn’t recognise her at first as he scanned the foyer absent-mindedly while prattling into a phone he held pressed to his left ear.

Yes, that was what they were called. Phones. For phoning people, Redfield had told her. He’d not even been trying to hide how harshly he’d been judging her sanity at that point.

 _Phoning_. Silly word.

So, there was Piers Nivans, all civilian like, in a warm jacket and plain dark blue trousers and spiky brown hair. Still all smooth too, young and eager and looking mighty miffed, as if someone had just pinched the last cookie from the jar and not bothered to refill it. And then his hazel brown eyes passed her. Once. Twice. The third time they came back around in a hurry and the hand on his phone tightened while the other dropped under his coat and produced a sidearm.

It snapped up with impressive speed and Sadja once again found herself staring down a muzzle.

“Don’t move!” he shouted and as if on cue the front doors opened to allow three more men inside. They too were dressed in simple warm civilian coats, but their down-to-business demeanour, short cropped hair and determined steps identified them as seasoned soldiers underneath it all. Their hands hovered where one might expect a weapon readily available, but they were not quite as eager as Nivans to flaunt them about.

You probably didn’t pull guns on people in public here.

You really didn’t do that anywhere… And come to think of it, having guns pulled on her was beginning to annoy her just a tad. Sadja noticed her own hand making a dip to her hip on instinct, but that was pointless. Nothing there. Not a thing that went boom, nor something to slice and dice with.

_Bugger._

So she spread her fingers wide and lifted her hands behind her head in a universal gesture of surrender.

“Neevanz,” she cooed at him.

Colour crept up his neck. “Down on your knees! Now!”

Hotheads were adorable. Until they shot you, of course. He clicked the phone off, shoved it into his pocket, and gave a quick jab towards her side.

“Lieutenant,” came the confirmation from one of his men and they moved to circle her. Their booted feet hit the stone floor hard and sent echoes bounding through the foyer. They’d drawn their sidearms now, but while Nivans had his trained square at her, theirs were still pointed to the ground.

They did not share their Lieutenants enthusiasm one bit. Neither did Torrian, really. The man looked rightfully perplexed standing in the middle of a disaster in the making. He’d come expecting a confrontation, no doubt, but it had been with her, not a group of armed men.

Sadja winked at the puzzled Sare and slowly lowered herself to the ground. Today, the fledgling Keeper was the obedient type.

“I guess you’ve got me,” she told Nivans. “What’s it going to be? Shackles and a lecture?” She tilted her chin up to face him. “I’d lock me up if I was you.”

To her right, one of the hothead’s men was trying to get Torrian to move out of the way. “Sir, please step aside,” she heard him say. But Torrian was not about to let his prize be challenged. Or so Sadja hoped.

“Bryce,” Nivans growled. “Cuff her.”

“Sir,” came the response and one of the men broke from the circle. He holstered his gun and produced a stiff line of sorts which he approached her with. Another of them had gotten all fed up with Torrian not listening and clamped a hand on the Sare’s shoulder to pull him aside.

He didn’t see his end coming.

Torrian was no Keeper or _Cad’his_ . He was what the Ward generally referred to simply as _Sare_ , the most common of the marked folk. Sadja envied him. He got to enjoy all the perks without any of the snags. And he made it look so easy too.

His soul flared into action. Sadja felt it, an electric tingle that zapped her at the edge of her awareness. He was quick. At least that much they had in common. The Sare tossed the fitted coat open and drew a slender and short blade. With a swift upwards motion he sliced into the startled soldier and knocked him over with an almost casual bump of the shoulder. One moment the man had stood upright. The next, he wasn’t. Sadja didn’t know if he’d killed him. Chances were he had, but she’d have to figure out how she felt about that later.

“Wills!” Everyone’s attention shifted to Torrian. Muzzles found a new target and fingers twitched to find triggers. A good effort, but too late.

Torrian let his lightly booted foot fall heavily.

Thunderstep had earned his name. Where others pushed and pulled at the world around them by latching onto Elaya’s sheltering hem, he’d focused his Sare given talent to disrupt what everyone needed; A steady footing and a clear mind.

When his foot came down, the ground gave a gentle quiver. You could hardly tell. A counter wobbled slightly and Wills’s body twitched. The gun he’d dropped trembled on the stone floor. But every living thing, all that had a soul, was thrown off their feet. Sadja, thinking she’d planned this perfectly in her head and that she’d gotten this all under control, anchored herself within the Verge as tightly as she could. It still jarred her bones and clicked her teeth together, but unlike Nivans and his remaining two friends, she didn’t get knocked on her arse. What she hadn’t prepared herself for was the shock that followed. Torrian’s soul ran like a high voltage current up every tendril of her soul, electrified all it touched. Too late Sadja realised that she’d messed up. Royally so.

_Should have worn the barr._

Her muscles spasmed all at once, fingers cramping, back arching, throat constricting and all other sorts of twinges that she couldn’t register past the initial burst of pain.

 _Should_ really _have worn the barr._

And while she convulsed and wheezed and maybe even screamed, Nivans and Co. just dropped their weapons and hit the floor properly dazed, their dignity still intact. No demeaning twitching, just a bit of startled gaping.

 _Not… fair…_ Sadja thought through the pain as it slowly fled the scene.

 _”Death follows where you walk, Sadja. Won’t you_ ever _listen?”_ Ceat said.

She struggled against the bright dots still dancing in her vision. Cold crept against her side. He knelt by her, leaning his face close to hers. Her breath froze in her chest. The tears the pain had squeezed from her wanted to turn themselves to droplets of ice.

 _”Look. Look what you’ve done now,”_ he taunted and lifted a hand to point at Torrian as he gave his sword a casual flourish while stalking towards Nivans.

_”Death, Sadja. You are Death.”_

The young man let out a startled groan as he tried to set himself right, hands uselessly grabbing at the floor and feet lazily kicking. He’d not be kicking much longer once Torrian reached him.

If only he’d not come looking. And if only he’d not found them. Stupid soldier boy. Really shouldn’t have bothered with his Captain, he didn’t seem worth the bloody effort. Not worth dying for.

And that death, that’d be her fault. She knew that. Something she’d done, always something she’d done. Sadja leaned against her gates and wearily pushed them aside. A rush of white noise came flooding in. Torrian had sent Elaya’s hem into disarray, crumpled it up around her and left her with nothing to hold on to.

Gale had chosen wisely. _Clever bitch._

And now Nivans would get himself sliced and that’d make Redfield sad. Probably. Maybe. If he cared at all. She had no fucking clue. Sadja exhaled a harsh and grim giggle and propped herself up on her right elbow. Ceat sat down next to her. _”Stop trying,”_ he told her. _Shut up_ , she thought back at him. One of the soldier’s guns was lying maybe half a meter ahead of her. Half of too far away.

“That tickled,” she lied through numb lips.

Torrian paused and looked towards her. A hint of surprise creased his otherwise smooth features and he looked between Nivans and her. He’d probably thought her knocked out — and now he had to figure out which one was the bigger threat.

“You’re resilient, young Keeper. I will give you that.” His voice was smooth as the rest of him. Unblemished. Perfect. It made your ears feel all clean. No wonder the Nightingale liked him so much.

_Sorry Gale. You’re not getting this one back._

Sadja smirked at him. “It’s been said I don’t know when to quit,” she agreed and allowed her right arm to give way under her. Her chin hit the floor. _Ouch._ Torrian shook his head slowly and turned his attention back to Nivans.

_Got ya._

She reached for the gun with her left hand, wrapped her fingers around the grip on it, and trained it at the Sare’s back.

_Safety._

Her thumb moved up, found the small lever and flicked it down.

_Bam._

She squeezed the trigger. The weapon rocked in her hand, sent a new tremor up her arm and into her sore shoulder. Her ears protested with a screeching ring, and her nostrils itched as she breathed in the sharp scent of the discharge.

Torrian whipped around as the gunshot cracked through the foyer. He didn’t _dodge_ the shot, as much as he convinced it to be someplace else with a harsh tug that sent the Verge around him into turmoil. It slammed into the wall just above Nivans. Barely _just_ , really. A smidgen lower and it would have lodged itself in his head.

_Oops._

“Have you gone daft, Keeper?” Torrian looked at her as if she’d just tried to lick her own elbow in front of him. Not that she could blame him, really. Attacking a seasoned Sare with a gun was as useful as throwing pebbles at a Reaper. You might get a lucky shot in if you were persistent enough, but chances were you’d just waste each others time instead.

Sometimes she really did think she’d gotten the short end of the stick. But that was the card she’d been dealt when she’d broken into the world screaming and kicking, and those’d be the cards she’d kept playing with until she left it. Hopefully the same way too, and not salivating on the floor while the Wasting ate her up.

_Focus, scatterbrain._

Sadja fired again. And again. Pale, rose coloured sparks flared as each bullet cracked into the whirlwind Torrian had thrown up ahead of himself. They flew wide. And still she kept at it. The recoil jarred her wrist, and she figured she would have been missing regardless, but she kept squeezing the trigger time and time again.

Shot seven, eight and nine, none of them fired from her gun, found their target well and true.

Torrian Thunderstep jolted forward. He staggered two steps into her direction, lips moving silently, mouthing disbelief at the world. Then he pivoted, tried to turn towards Nivans, but his legs decided they’d had enough and collapsed halfway through. Two patches of dark red formed on his back, blemishing the well taken care of coat, and the back of his skull was already matted with blood pooling into his sleek hair.

Nivans lay on his side, propped up on his left elbow. The business end of the gun that had just ended Torrian was now trained at her. It weaved unsteadily, bobbed up and down with his effort to keep his arms from shaking. The young man took a deep breath. The bobbing stopped.

“Sod off, Neevanz,” Sadja sighed. “I just saved your life.”

“Nivans,” he corrected her. “Stay… stay down.” He sounded strained, but the gun wasn’t going anywhere, so Sadja returned the favour. She wasn’t off much better with her muscles still numb and the occasional spasm making her arm twitch. But it was the thought that counted, right? She aimed at the hothead and hoped she’d counted right. There should at least be one more shot left in there. If she hadn’t, then she was probably making herself look like a proper fool.

 _”Just pull the trigger. It’ll happen anyway. Get it over with.”_ Ceat was on his feet and stood an arm’s length away from Nivans. Sadja chose to ignore him. Her finger extended slowly, hovered away from the trigger. Just in case.

Nivans pushed himself up, and Sadja mirrored the slow and clumsy movements, despite clear instructions not to. Extend your arm, get a knee forward, left foot, right foot. Get those hips up, straighten that back…

 _”You brought discord to this world, Sadja, can’t you see? Whatever will you do to fix it?”_ She curbed the urge to swivel the gun at Ceat instead. _”Ah, I forgot.”_ The spectre looked towards Nivans, a cruel smile on his lips. _”You’re just another piece of driftwood now.”_ He stepped around the young man. _”Flotsam and jetsam pushed through the beyond. Chaos.”_

The impossible Ceat lifted a hand to gently place a finger against the barrel of the gun. It steadied with the touch.

_”A fitting end.”_

Sadja’s heart squeezed. _Coincidence,_ she insisted.

The only thing steady about Nivans was his aim. The rest of him still struggled, and by the time they both had their respective feet under them, they were pulling off the wobbliest of standoffs Sadja had thought humanly possible.

“Where is he?” Nivans squeezed the question through gritted teeth.

She arched a brow at him. Really? No _Who was that?_ or _What the fucking fuck just happened?_ He went straight to the point, like any good lad with a purpose and a one track mind.

“I don’t have the faintest,” Sadja lied. Her eyes darted to Ceat as he pouted at her. Disappointed that they’d not shot each other yet?

_Yeah, well, get used to it._

Around her the other men began to stir. A muffled groan here, a pained sigh there. Soon they’d fight off the daze too and then it’d be three against one. Nivans worked his jaw silently and glanced at his friends.

“Be a good lad then, go on.” Sadja taunted. “Check on your men.”

He circled her and she kept ahead of him, all the while shuffling backwards. To the front doors. Or at least she figured that’s where they were. Hard to tell her with head still ringing and her ears feeling like someone had filled them with water. She passed Wills. He wasn’t breathing with that sliced throat of his.

 _”Your fault,”_ Ceat informed her. Unnecessarily. He knelt by the dead man and was busying himself by tracing figures of blood along the stone floor. 11:0, it spelled out. Sadja snapped her eyes back towards Nivans, who had lowered himself into a crouch to give one of his men a solid slap on the shoulder. That stupid gun was still pointed at her. The soldier grunted and lifted a one weak arm. His thumb popped out. _All good_ it said.

_Crap._

She abandoned any thought of a smooth exit and threw herself into the door. One yank and it flew open. Three shots followed her, two of them shattering the glass on the door, one kicking up concrete at her feet as she hit the cold afternoon air.

Good. Nivans was aiming to cripple, not kill. Sadja tossed her own weapon and dashed across the street.

The opposite sidewalk had attracted an almost impressive crowd of morbidly curious onlookers, clustered together at a barely safe distance.

 _Are you bloody insane? Why’d you head_ towards _gunfire, you stupid sheep? Don’t you know that’s where you get killed?_

Sadja felt another giggle bubble up her throat, then her right thigh gave a spasm and the giggle turned into a wheeze. She struggled to get herself straight again and finally caught up with the mass of people. Somewhere in the distance sirens blared. They’d be getting closer, but she’d be nice and gone by then. Behind her, Nivans came hurtling from the building and the crowd came to life. They scattered, and no matter how loudly he shouted for them to get down and clear the way, they just made a mess of it.

Sadja spared a thought of gratitude for the sheep that had come to the slaughter on their own volition, and dove into the herd of panicked bodies. She rode it like a current down the street, keeping at least one hapless civilian between her and the hothead with his itchy trigger finger. The herd, however, thinned quickly, and Sadja had to reconsider her plan. She plotted a new route in her head, thought of the times she’d wandered between here and the main square, and found the alleyway that’d take her right there. Her hand reached out and she grabbed the corner of the brick walled building, and pulled herself right into the dim, narrow corridor.

A tall dumpster ahead to the right, with a cluster of metal bins around it, piles of snow packed against the walls. Slice of skies up ahead. Just a few more meters.

Sadja risked a glance over her shoulder.

 _Bugger._ He was right there, that determined little prick. His arms snapped up and he took aim.

 _Bollocks._ Sadja dove behind the dumpster just as the first shot rang through the alley. It pinged off the metal frame, followed quickly by another. The next three kicked up dirt by her feet.

“Bloody hell, this aint fair,” she moaned and threw a look around her. Door on her right, but no idea where that went. Sirens blaring, real close now. Bins. No good. And Nivans and his hurried footsteps, so much closer than the sirens, so much more of a bother.

_Door. Right here. Look. Up._

The fledgling Keeper lunged for the handle and pulled. It swung open, caught a bullet for her (that brave little thing), and let her into a brightly lit room. A bakery. It was hot in here. And it smelled delicious. The heavy scent of freshly baked bread teased her stomach, tried to convince it that getting caught might not be such a bad idea if she could nick some food. Because damn, was she hungry. One wide lane of counters ran the length of the room, with ovens and cooling racks lining the walls. Three flabbergasted bakers stood stock still, their hands still clinging on to whatever task they’d been carrying out. One was pushing bread into an oven. Another was rolling dough on the counter. And the third, the one Sadja shouldered past and knocked to the side, had been frozen in the motion of pouring flour into a large pot. He dropped the flour and shoved the pot over. It tumbled to the ground.

Then Nivans arrived, gun readied and sweeping the room, and the poor man dropped himself to the floor too. Sadja, no matter how quick she’d always considered herself, barely made it to the end of the counter and towards the open archway leading to the front of the bakery, when he squeezed off another shot. It clipped the wall. Exactly where she would have been a heartbeat later. She veered to the side and another bullet tore plaster from the wall where her head might have been.

_Damn._

She stopped dead.

“That—“ Piers snarled between two deep breaths. “—was a warning. The next one won’t miss.”

Sadja curled her fingers into loose fists and turned around to face him. To her left the bakers finally dropped what they’d been doing and scurried into her direction.

Piers’ gun swivelled towards them briefly. “Don’t move!” He barked. They complied, and his attention turned back to her.

In the meantime, Sadja’s left hand swiped the next best thing she could find off the counter. A thick, heavy rolling pin. _Really?_ She wanted to groan at the utterly useless thing as she weighed it in her hand, but instead she clutched it like a weapon, with her knuckles turning white around it. Across of her, Nivans stared at the thing, too. His right eyebrow came, and Sadja couldn’t help the quick shrug of her shoulders as if to say _What? Never had your wits beaten out of you with a rolling pin? It’s fun. You should try it._

_Elaya’s bloody knickers, you nitwit. Focus._

“I don’t want to shoot you,” he insisted and took a slow step to the right. His breathing came slow, collected. If the chase had winded him he wasn’t letting it on. His aim was steady, too. Both hands tightly gripped the gun and his hazel eyes were set with clear and deadly intent.

Great.

“So stand down, put your hands on the counter. And _drop that_.”

A flick of his eyes followed, gracing his gun with a quick glance and a pinched brow. Concern fluttered through the Verge. Not much. Just a spell. Enough to give her hope. _’Hothead ran out of bullets? What you got left? One, two?_ If she’d only be so lucky. _Let’s go with one._

“Yes, you do.” Sadja reinforced the grip on the rolling pin. “You very much want to. But you’ve only got one shot left, and what are you gonna do when you miss?”

“I don’t miss.”

_One. Good._

He adjusted his left hand against the grip of the gun and took his first step towards her. Hotheaded. Determined. Cocky.

“I like you, Neevanz.” She took a small step back. The gun twitched.

“Nivans,” he growled.

She allowed herself a roll of her shoulders as she tested the weight of her impractical weapon in her hand. Then she let her gates fall ajar and gave her soul free roam to dance about. Fear clustered to her left. _’Biting metal. Sour grapes.’_ Timid though, barely worth sniffing at, all in tune with the rest of this hollow world.

And then there was Nivans. Or wasn’t. Or was. Or wasn’t— _Will you stop_ squirming _?!_

Sadja’s eyebrow came up. He was fickle. Quick. Alert. His soul shied away from each tentative brush and led her on a merry chase, only to swing around and nip at her. Persistent. Elusive. Crafty.

Shame. If that lad had been born marked he’d make a fine _Cad’his_. A hotheaded and cocky one, but a fine one.

 _Irrelevant_ , Sadja reminded herself and took a deep breath, followed by a wide step back.

Nivans coiled. His soul snapped into place, and his finger twitched against the trigger. He’d been right. He didn’t miss. It would have hit her right in the chest. No more warning shots and no more maiming, this one had been meant to kill.

The bullet slammed into the rolling pin, knocked the thing right from her fingers. She let it fly and shook her left hand, her mouth working up a quiet “Ouch,” because apparently getting some wood shot from your hands actually hurt quite a bit.

Nivans, in the meantime, had his jaws set so tight she thought it was going to break any moment now. She expected some sort of reaction. One of amazement, maybe. Or shock. Maybe a teeny bit of _Hot damn, that was cool._

No. Nivans didn’t miss a bloody death. Didn’t waste any time with confusion or astonishment. Determination flared from him, vivid and alive. She’d insulted his marksmanship. With a rolling pin. That was, by definition, not okay.

There was a giggle trapped somewhere in her chest, all eager to come bubbling up her throat and steal the breath she very much needed. It’d have to wait though, because his left hand snapped into his coat, quick and smooth. Second gun, spare set of bullets— _Irrelevant_ —she darted forward.

The first time she’d robbed Nivans of his footing, he’d not expected it. But this time around he was prepared, and the fledgling Keeper mucked it up.

The gun came up, magazine sliding home even before she reached him. _Fucker ’s quick._ Sadja slipped in, around the baker cowering on the floor. The muzzle swung around. Her hand knocked into his wrist as he squeezed off the shot. Her ears told her they’d had _enough_ of having themselves rung, and she thought she might end up deaf on one of them, but at least the gun went flying. then she followed up, a jab to his throat, but he redirected it with his arm.

A hand snatched the back of her neck as she moved too far forward. Found it, too. Squeezed. Folded her forward. His knee came up. It slammed into her, knocked the air from her and rattled her ribs. Once. Her vision blurred with white dots. Twice. There was a spell of black. Man kicked like a bloody horse. Third time she wrapped her arms around his leg and pushed forward.

Nivans fell. She went with him.

_Breathe!_

She rolled with the fall, got her legs under her and was on her feet the same time as him.

_Arms up. Stance. Tighter._

Untamed rage washed against her and lit his hazel eyes. Hair dishevel, breathing a little harder now, but still set on the kill. He came at her. Slow. Testing the waters. His right shoulder moved. _’Feint’_ His left hook was the one that tried to catch her. She deflected it against her forearm, sent it wide. The follow up came, she wove out of the way.

They danced for a few heartbeats, precious ones she couldn’t spare, because the sirens, the bloody sirens, and Sadja wanted this to end. She pivoted on the balls of her feet, snapped her knee up. Meant to knock it into his hip. He let it land too, let it crack right home, only to drop his arm and catch her leg against his torso.

_Fuck._

She was lifted right off the bloody floor, and spun towards the counter. Her back cracked into the wood, lungs exhaling air faster than she could draw it back in. His hip connected with hers, and his free hand grabbed her by the throat.

_Elaya’s bloody knickers…!_

“Least you can do…” she grunted with the last bit of breath she had left before he could squeeze that out too. “…is buy me dinner first.”

Fury howled at her. So much unadulterated fury. Not the righteous kind, the one filled with passion and direction. No, the red-faced type, the rampant one. He was so absorbed in it he missed her questing hands, how one wrapped around a bag of flour. The bag exploded in a cloud of white against his face. He coughed. Spluttered. The grip on her leg and throat lifted. Not by much, but by enough. She wiggled free, pulled her other leg up and planted her foot against his chest. Pushed.

He staggered, and she slipped from the counter.

_Enough playtime. Go!_

And there was his gun, lying just a meter ahead. She dashed for it, scooped it up. Now all she had to do was get rid of that white hot fury on her heels.

_Easy. Bloody easy. Go!_

Sadja dashed from the room into the storefront. She vaulted over the counter there, feet sweeping mugs and decoration with them, and hit the ground running on the other side. Her hands grabbed for chairs as she ran, threw them behind her. Then she was out the door. And off across the square. The _square_ was a big bloody circle in the middle of a criss cross of roads meeting at the centre of the city. And just because there’d been a shooting one block away didn’t mean traffic stopped right then and there. Vehicles kept pouring through, going round and round in the circle, and Sadja wove through them. They honked. They stopped. Or they kept going and she’d vault over the front of them. By the time she reached the other end, traffic had come to a proper halt. She tossed the gun, threw it wide. And on she went, leading Nivans on a chase he was bound to lose without that stupid gun of his. Because at the end of the day, Sadja had to admit, being a _Cad’his_ had its perks too.

Getting tired, for example, was something you could save for later.

* * *

 **C** hris lifted his eyes from the map he’d spread over the steering wheel and pinched the bridge of his nose. Sirens blared in the distance, and he could swear they were coming right from the centre of the city.

“Why are you doing this, Redfield,” he asked himself, but there wasn’t much of an answer to be had in that numb skull; Just a whole lot of static. He leaned his head back.

Were those sirens her fault?

What were the odds that they _weren’t_?

He looked back at the map. South. Maybe he should just go. Right now, without her. He’d redeemed himself, hadn’t he? He owed her nothing.

He looked back up, across the parking lot and the frozen river. A drab, gray landscape sat beneath a clear, blue sky. Not a bad day for getting out of here, he figured. But before he could settle himself with the thought of leaving on his own, the girl of his recent nightmares came bolting around the corner of a riverside shop and running up along the pier. Not walking quickly, or casually jogging, no. Running. At full tilt.

“What _now_ …?” he groaned and hastily folded the map together. He tossed it onto the dash and snapped his seatbelt home. “What the fucking hell _now_ ,” he repeated.

His fingers found the key and he gunned the engine, just in time for her to break her stride against the hood of the van. She slapped a hand against it, let out a hoot that he could hear through the windows, and slid around to yank open the passenger door.

“We should go,” she managed between gasps for air and slammed the door shut again. He draped an arm over the steering wheel and stared at her. Should he ask the obvious?

The _Why_?

_Do I want to know?_

The girl was flushed. Specks of red covered her face and neck. Her breathing came in quick and greedy gulps. Her hair was all over the place too, and she looked like she’d rolled in dirty snow. And flour. Why was she covered in flour? Chris blinked.

“No, really, I am not kidding. We should,” Sadja insisted and threw him a quick, impish grin. Her eyes were bright, almost feverish. They glinted with mischief and glee, as if she’d just robbed a candy store and gotten away with it.

And so, Chris decided, he could ask the obvious question later. Or maybe never. Whatever happened first. He threw the van into gear and backed it out of the parking lot as quick as the thing would go. Which really wasn’t very quick at all.

Sadja, still collecting her breath and fidgeting in her seat, turned to glance out the back of the van after he merged them into traffic. Eventually her breathing calmed and the rest of her followed suit. Was that it then?

“Are we good?”, Chris asked.

“Mh,” she hummed in reply and rolled her head to the side, honey coloured eyes settling on him.

He glanced at the strange girl. “Was that a yes?”

“Yes.”

 _’Right.’_ Chris returned his focus to the busy traffic ahead of him, mapped the route he’d picked in his head.

Three more turns and they’d be on the main road out. And once the city was behind them, then what? He glanced at the folded map that he’d tossed onto the dash. Pick a road. Follow it until he was too tired to keep the wheel steady?

_’Good a plan as any.’_

Chris absent-mindedly went for the pack of cigarettes in his coat. As he pulled them free he noticed the curious stare still on him. It made his right eye twitch.

“What?”

“You didn’t bring breakfast.”

Chris pinched the bridge of his nose. Again. _Ungrateful little…_ He let out a drawn out breath and pointed at the two tall cups between them, then at the paper bag at her feet. Lastly he jabbed a finger at her seatbelt.

“You _did_ bring breakfast,” she corrected herself, strapped herself in, and tore into the bag like a starved animal. Then her legs came up and she rested her knees against the dash while chomping away at the food.

This was going to be a long drive, Chris thought and reached over to push her legs back down.

A very long one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes Part 2, Life in the City, and sends our two lost souls on a trip South across Europe. I hope they'll have a few readers for company :)


	13. Part 3: Rearview Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sadja wonders _What if.._ and Redfield remembers a crucial detail about himself: He does not like dogs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll get to spend a little more time with Sinvik at the beginning of this chapter. Not for too long though, and then we're right back in with Sadja and Redfield.

**Part 2: Rearview Mirror**

**INTERMISSION: Sinvik**

* * *

  **T** he day I learn that Sadja yet lives, should be a jovial one. I should have clapped my hands together and shimmied on the spot, maybe even cooed a little. Make a proper fool of myself. Shed the stoic image of the Keeper and try myself at court jesting. In hindsight, not a bad choice of career. But I digress.

Alternatively, I could have simply sat down. Could have muttered her name under my breath, and enjoyed the fleeting touch of hope creeping into my heart.

“Where’d you get this?” I cock my head at the Pariah standing in front of me, two sheets of paper in my hand and the halls of my own home falling away in a din of despair.

“Where. Did. You. Get. This.”

He arches a lopsided brow at me. Frowns. The man doesn't even manage to keep his scowls on straight. Nath vil’ Paric, the most skewed individual I’d ever met, stands in front of me with his arms folded and my hopes dashed at his feet. Because what he’s brought me isn't a silver lining, but the sight of a Reaper swooping in from Hell to devour the only sister— the only child— I’ve ever had. Right in front of my eyes.

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

I hack up a curse, tell him he can hike himself up a Reaper’s arse hole, and swing away from him. The sheets in my hand tremble, and I slap them down on the table that I almost knock my knees into during my blind stomp through the room.

“Why can’t she ever leave us alone, mh? Why can’t she leave things be. Sadja ’s done nothing to harm her, its _me_ she wants. Not her.”

“You love the girl,” he tells me. Fact of the matter and matter of the fact— I don't need to hear it, I know it. “She can’t stand it.”

“Bitch.” I glance down at the table, at two of Gale’s charcoal drawings staring back at me, beautifully detailed with each practised stroke.

“Quite,” he says, because at least this something we're in agreement about. The Nightingale is a terrible cunt.

My jaw sets itself and I hear my teeth grind together loudly, and all the while my eyes stay fixated on the image of my lost Fledgling.

She's fast asleep, curled awkwardly in an upright seat. I have no idea what she has squeezed herself into. A cockpit of sorts, a bit like the Seditio, but spartan in comparison. My _barr_ , that well worn, old thing, is loosely wrapped around her neck, and a heavy coat folded around her shoulders. Her hands are wrapped around a tall cup, which she’s forgotten squeezed between her legs before falling asleep.

She looks so bloody peaceful, I think. Except for the hint of a frown furrowing her brow, the one that I've failed to relive her off. No matter how hard I’ve tried, and I had bloody well tried.

Gale has sketched a second figure onto the page. A tall and scruffy looking man. He has one hand lazily resting against a wheel in front of him, and the other holding a smoke to his lips. The drawing caught him looking at the sleeping girl. It might be a sideways glance, or a long and steady stare. I have no way of telling. The whole story of the picture will forever be a mystery to me, I know that. But it shows me the man's confusion, plainly written across his weary features. Like he doesn't quite know what to do with my Sadja. Much like I don't know what to do with  _this._

“She’s baiting you,” Nathric says. Of course. It's all a game to her. And this time its Sadja that finds herself a pivotal piece on my board, with Gale's eyes turned to her and wanting to knock her off it. 

Or so I think.

I nod lamely. Study the second page. Another drawing, the same pair.

My Fledgling is awake now. She sits perched on the front of a tall, snub-nosed vehicle of sorts, legs folded casually and boots resting against a pile of… snow? Winter. Sadja hates winters. I frown.

The front of the vehicle is thrown open, held up by a rickety looking stick. The _barr_ remains wound around her neck, and she’s pushed a cap over her ears to keep warm.

The man now bears down on her from the side, one hand grasping at the edge of the propped open top, the other waving a tool of sorts at her face. Sadja leans away from him and holds a map spread out in front of her, as if to ward him off. And while she grins widely behind the sanctuary of the map, he looks desperately furious.

I glance at the bottom of the page. Both drawings are signed with a flourish, and the words make my blood boil.

_”Love, Gale.”_

 

  
**EGITA**

* * *

 

“ **W** hy’d you break it?” Sadja stuck her head into the gaping jaw of the stranded vehicle. Tubes. Boxes. More tubes and then a few more boxes. Redfield grunted. It was an angry grunt, and she lifted her eyes from the dead beastie’s engine to meet the muddy blue stare desperate to squash her on the spot.

“I didn’t.” He claimed.

“You must have done _something_.”

Sadja perched herself onto the edge of the vehicle and stretched her legs out in front of her. Her boots pushed into a pile of dirty snow. He chose to ignore her chafing at his patience and turned his attention back to the engine bay, a flashlight in one fist and the other gloved hand rooting through the messy innards.

Dusk had crept up on them half an hour ago, just in time for their metal beastie of burden to go splutter and die at the side of the road. It had waited until they’d been nice and clear of the town they’d passed through too.

It was a Shielding thing; Wrong spot at the wrong nick in time.

Up and down the road spread flat, snow packed land and neat rows of barren trees. A hard wind pushed inland, carrying salt and a whole lot of cold with it. She pulled the woollen cap a little tighter over her ears. Heavy clouds covered the skies from horizon to horizon, and once the sun hiding behind them set all the way, it’d be pitch black. That’d be soon, Sadja knew.

“Can you fix it?” she asked while she unfolded the map she’d pinched from inside. The headlights of the vehicle were just about enough to let her read it. Redfield had traced a red line along the coast. It followed a single road, which eventually drove into the mainland where the red pen had concluded its journey at a dot labeled _Riga_.

“What’s Riga?”

Something snapped in the engine bay. Redfield growled.

“Is that where we are going?”

She snuck a glance to the left. Elbow deep in the thing, he was either fiercely focused on the task at hand, or doggedly ignoring her.

_Try both._

Sadja pushed her tongue against the roof of her mouth and clicked it in an idle rhythm. The fledgling Keeper had never been good at doing _nothing_. Though it wasn’t her fault, she liked to think. They said a shiftless _Cad’his_ was no _Cad’his_ at all. With her soul flitting restlessly in-between the folds of Elaya’s hem, eager to taste every facet of the world around her, who could blame her? A _barr_ helped, and so did her sturdy gates, but there was no shaking the itch, no releasing the pressure. No, idle was not her forte.

“Where we headed next?”

She followed the road as it wound itself through the map, crossing country lines as it went and dotted by cities along the way. Way down at the bottom, South as Redfield had said, more coast. It’d be lined with beaches, Sadja hoped. Soft, white and very warm beaches. But there’d be a great deal of ground to cover before they’d get anywhere near them, and that would mean sitting still, with nothing but her thoughts to keep her occupied. They were a mess too. Questions floated freely about, and each answer she thought to catch only served to stir up more mud for her to sift through later.

“Po-land?” Sadja asked, trying to vest herself in something else than the riddle that was (or had been) Torrian Thunderstep…

_May you rest in pieces on Nivans’ dissecting table, you knob._

She had already scraped up the scattered remains of her thoughts on what had happened back at the crib, but no matter how she piled them together, no stack felt right. If the Nightingale knew where she was, then why only send Torrian after her? That wasn’t like her. Gale did not do things half heartedly. She’d have set Locke on her tail, that ever faithful Fetcher. Or come herself and snuffed her out right there.

 _The Wasting._ Sadja thought, while she tilted her head and tapped at one of the dots near the road. “Kra— Krakauw?”

The _Marked Wasting_ would give Gale pause. She wouldn’t risk Locke, wouldn’t be willing to lose the only Shielding that had oh so willingly thrown himself into her pot of mischief. She’d rather not tell Torrian about it and have him deal with his own demise later, for the _Wasting_ was not easily tasted on a Sare’s soul. The man had been distracted.

Sadja kept turning her thoughts in her head and her eyes darted farther south on the map. “What’s San Marino? Do they have beaches there?”

Stoic silence. Who would have thunk?

 _So then, what are you going to do, stupid girl?_ Keep going? Stop and hope Sinvik had caught a whiff of Gale’s efforts?

_And then what? It’s not like she can just pop right through. There’s rules to follow. The Cataract won’t let her. Fucking thing._

“Where’s Amsterdam? I rather liked that. Can we go there?”

Bright light flicked into her direction, caught her square in the face. Sadja squinted and looked up at Redfield.

“Do you ever shut up?” He growled and she lifted the map to ward herself from the fiercely jerking beam of light. She allowed herself a quick grin as a spurt of anger flared against her gates, all mouth and no trousers this time around, with no intent to bring her any harm.

So when he grabbed the edge of the map and pulled it down harshly, Sadja stood — or more so leaned — her ground despite the broad shouldered crossness bearing down on her.

“We—” His voice still carried more bark than bite “—are not going to go anywhere until I get this shit bucket rolling again.”

“And can you do that?”

“I—“ Redfield glanced back into the engine bay, flashlight dancing along, and pinched the bridge of his nose. A sigh later his shoulders slumped and he gave his head the faintest of shakes. “No, I don’t think I can.”

He looked up, around the vehicle and into the night settling over the road, then over his shoulder down the other way. Didn’t like what he was seeing one bit, Sadja concluded, and liked the thoughts between his ears even less.

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” He muttered and turned his attention back to the map on her lap. The flashlight followed. She watched him study the thing, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. Plotting, thinking and being all serious about it. Did that man ever lighten up?

“We can get a new one,” Sadja offered while he traced the road with a gloved finger.

* * *

 _ **D** on’t do it Redfield, _ Chris tried to convince himself, despite how badly he wanted to wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze. Even if just a little. That’d be enough, because her throat must have been hurting fiercely by its own.

_Just.. just don’t._

He kept his eyes on the map splayed out on her lap instead and curbed the urge to strangle cocky little shits. Her legs moved, shifted the paper at the tip of his finger. He tapped it gently, indicating their approximate whereabouts.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere. Twenty minutes drive up the coast to get back to the town we passed. Same the other way.”

His eyes cut to her and the flashlight flicked back up. Sadja squinted.

“You don’t happen to have a phone on you?”

“Nh.” She tried to swat the beam of light out of her face and he dipped it to the side.

“What was that?”

“No, Sir. And I still think that’s a moronic word.”

The strange girl who insisted _phoning_ was a ridiculous choice of word, brought her left hand up to slip underneath her scarf and rub at her throat, and narrowed her eyes at him in warning when the beam of light danced back around.

“How’s your leg then?” she asked, her melodic voice heavy with the unspoken challenge. Didn’t take a genius to see where this was headed. Chris sighed.

“My leg is just fine, thank you.”

“Good, then let’s start walking.”

She slide away from under the map and past him, her booted feet crunching across the frozen ground as she headed for the back of the van. There she went right for the sliding door and gave the handle a tug. It didn’t budge.

Despite himself, Chris smiled. Couldn’t sit still to let a minute tick by, could she? Couldn’t plan ahead either, and definitely couldn’t stand not getting the hang of something as simple as a door. She quipped with frustration and gave the handle one more yank. When that didn’t work she twisted about, headed for the driver side door and crawled inside.

Chris snapped the hood of the van back down and followed her. She was halfway in the back, with her rear end sticking out and her hips firmly lodged between the seats. He paused, wiped the dirty glove on his coat.

_Should probably help, Redfield._

A strained little mutter started bouncing through the cab.

 _Nah._ His lips twitched. Might as well enjoy the show.

By the time she’d pulled everything to the front, he’d lit himself a cigarette and was halfway into finding new appreciation for her narrow back and the delicate curve of her hips. Not too wide, not too straight— just right, even wrapped in the heavy coat. Just right. And incredibly distracting.

He cleared his throat.

She hefted one of the duffles up and caught him looking. Looking and standing idly by, which earned him a glower no-where near as fleeting as her smiles. If he’d believed in looks that could kill, he’d expected himself a moment away from a smiting.

“Arse,” she said and swung his knapsack from the van. “Tosser,” she added and threw the second duffel at him. He caught it. Then she started trekking, and Chris followed.

* * *

 **T** here were upsides to walking, he admitted.

For one, there was a measure of peace to it. He took a long drag from his cigarette (the third one since they’d left the van behind) and readjusted his grip on the duffel in his other hand. Sadja walked ahead of him, one bag slung lopsided over her right shoulder, and kept mostly to herself.

_Mostly._

Every few minutes her head would turn, catch the stare he had levelled at her back, and he would lift the flashlight to catch her honey coloured eyes with it. She’d squint at the light and she’d huff, and then she’d get back to marching with a perfect beat of left and right and left and right.

Then there was the silence.

Scarcely any traffic ran north or south, with only three vehicles rattling past since they’d started walking. Chris had contemplated sticking his thumb out, see if one of them would stop, but the steady rhythm of their feet crunching on snow and gravel had grown on him.

_And no radio._

Now there was a blessing.

It had been his damn fault, too. He’d woken her by turning up the volume inside the van, jolted her right out of an uneasy sleep which she’d spent twitching and whispering to herself. Her hands had jerked up, flung the still halfway full coffee cup from her lap. She’d yelped, tried to catch the thing as it went over her legs, and promptly slammed both her knees into the dash. More yelping. More cursing. And then she’d glared at him, but that hadn’t lasted since the radio drew her attention away from him and soon after she’d started fiddling with it trying to find a station she liked well enough. Half an hour later he’d been ready for a pitstop, and while he parked the car by the side of the road and went in search of a suitable bush, she’d gotten bored and went for the hunt again, once more back to twisting and turning the worn out knobs with determined fervour.

He’d stayed outside, stretched his legs and looked across the January sea foaming against a frozen, rocky shoreline, and behind him the strange girl found her fancy for Rock.

It hadn’t bothered him at first, even once he’d been back on the road. Not until she’d been the one to start turning the volume up, anyway. The music had blared from the poor quality speakers, pops and crackles of static mixing into guitar riffs, and she’d tapped her feet to the rhythm and let her fingers dance across the dash.

Each time he’d turned it down she’d glared at him and promptly turned it back up. Then he’d started switching the damned thing off, but that hadn’t deterred her one bit either.

Rinse and repeat until the van gave a buck and the engine stalled.

 _Probably saved her life,_ Chris confessed as he watched her follow the beam of light he cast ahead of her. He’d been quite close to cuffing her to the door, or throw her from the moving car right then and there.

Yes, he thought again. There were definitely upsides to walking.

Another car rolled by. Once past them the break lights flared and it pulled to the side to come to a slow halt against the shoulder. Sadja stopped. Her left hand dropped to her side, fingers twitching, and her head swivelled enough to throw him a stumped glance. Waiting for a cue? For him to tell her what to do?

Chris shrugged as he caught up to her.

The driver side door popped open. “Sveiki! Sveiki!” A woman’s voice. Friendly, too. Welcoming. Not like the warning bark that followed promptly, or the dark nose with its narrow muzzle covered in short, black fur and the row of white teeth grinning at him from the back window.

_Great._

“Don’t like dogs?” Sadja murmured by his side. His eyes cut to her and he just about caught the fading twitch of a quick smile.

_Apparently you don’t, Redfield._

The woman hushed her dog, climbed out of the car and looked at them from across its low roof. “Sveiki,” she repeated and met them with a genuine smile that creased a weathered face.

“Evenin’,” Sadja called out next to him. A slim shoulder bumped into his chest, and before he could do as much as take one step to the side, she hooked a hand into his elbow and pulled him along.

“Try not to frighten her, Redfield,” she murmured and snuck her arm into his.

The woman hesitated. She threw a question at them that neither understood, but that didn’t break Sadja’s stride. She wore a steady smile. Innocent and honest, pale lips lifted just right. Her voice played the same game, with a tremble of uncertainty thrown in that he might have believed hadn’t he stood right there with her fingers clutched around his arm. There wasn’t anything uncertain about the grip.

She retold the last few hours of their trip down the coast, how their car broke down and left them stranded in the middle of the night. All the truth too, except that she left out the duffel at her back stuffed with a fortune of cash and a loaded gun. Or why they’d hightailed it out of Edonina. The woman didn’t need to know.

A minute later, Chris felt himself being navigated around the car, dragged along behind a chatty Sadja as she followed the broken English of the woman urging her to get in so she could take them to Riga.

So much for the peace and quiet…

* * *

 **R** edfield looked miserable back there. And so did his company, a large black and brown dog lying curled on the backseat next to him. They were quite the pair. All gruff and quiet, with the dog’s pretty golden stare not once leaving Redfield out of sight. Whenever he looked at the animal it let out a muffled whine and the tip of its tail gave a tentative wag. A peace offering, Sadja thought, one Redfield sternly declined.

She frowned.

Dogs were much like sheep. Or cats, or chickens. And horses. Humans, too. The list went on and on. Sadja leaned her cheek into the seat and watched man and dog stare each other down. You’d find them almost everywhere, as if someone had seeded a handful of realities with a set of standard crop and let them bloom as they saw fit.

Redfield’s muddy blue eyes cut to her.

And they’d bloomed nicely here, even without Reapers watching over them.

 _No,_ she corrected herself.   _Its the freedom they’ve been given that let them grow. No one to hold them back. No one to correct their mistakes._

A strange thought, that. One she’d not considered until now, and one that had itself muscled from her head as she held Redfield’s quiet stare. It wasn’t important. She could get back to it later. Maybe.

 _What are we doing here?_ he seemed to beg.

 _Getting a ride, is what._ she returned with a lopsided smirk. His brow furrowed, since naturally he had no idea why she’d started grinning at him, and he leaned himself heavily into his seat.

Redfield had been hesitant to throw the bags into the back of the vehicle when the woman opened the hatch, and even more so when she made him slide into the back. But the old Lady, Egita, had been insistent.

Egita was a stubborn woman at sixty-something, with clumsy English and a happy bright smile. Her skin was well tanned, her hair long and dark, and her eyes bright and grey. And she had a whole lot of things to say. She had three daughters (a picture of them sat wedged into a folded blind above the driver’s seat), all grown up and far away, and an ex husband in some place called Germany. Her and _Rex_ , the dog stubbornly eyeballing Redfield, had been on their way back home from work when she’d found the wayside couple. They’d both decided that the unlucky pair wouldn’t have to walk another step through the cold that night, even if that meant she’d have to drive them all the way to Riga.

How very sweet. Sweet, and incredibly curious, broken English or not.

Egita wanted to know their names, where they’d come from, where they were headed and how they’d liked Latvia, her wonderful home. Redfield willingly spun a tale in the backseat, including a place called London and a New Years adventure across Europe that conveniently failed to mention all the good stuff.

For a man with his noggin’ in five different ways of disarray, he still thought quick on his feet, Sadja marvelled. And then Egita’s happy smile faltered and she mentioned a conflict that had rattled the area, further up North and edging along to the East, ravaging the country hugging hers. And how it was good they’d not gotten into any trouble because of it. Redfield’s creativity failed him then, so Sadja told Egita how terrible all of it was, and how they’d been lucky not to notice it much.

His creativity wasn’t the only thing that fled Redfield on the mention of the conflict. Even with the _barr_ still keeping her soul reigned in, Sadja felt the violent tug. To him it was just another headache, a reminder that he’d not had a drink for a while, most like, but the discord of his soul told a different tale.

He let out a slow and shake breath, closed his eyes, and tilted his head back. Next to him, Rex, the ever-watchful dog, wagged his tail and let out a sympathetic whine.

Yes. Dog and man. They really _were_ the same no matter where you looked. So damn closely knit together, as if their souls had been made to match, even if they’d never truly understand each other.

Sadja pondered that, too. She’d never wasted much time considering philosophy of any sort. Too busy trying not to get herself caught. Then too busy trying to do the right thing, for the right reasons, and the wrong things because she had to. No time to stop and ponder why souls did as souls did and why some slotted together easily, while most couldn’t care less.

She held on to that thought too, and stashed it away for later consideration.

 _It’s not like I’ve got anything else to do._ Just a lot of time to think while the Furnace burnt close by and the Wasting had itself a good nibble.

Egita’s questions eventually turned to more detail, and when she asked where they’d met, it was Sadja’s turn to draw a blank.

Where _did_ you meet people, she wondered. You met them out of necessity, because you’d had your life assigned to them. Much like she’d been handed to Ceat. Or you met them as you fought for your life, and they’d pluck you from the fire as Trindram had done for her. And when Elaya fancied you, you might even find the sister life forgot to grant you as you sit bound and doomed at the Ward’s mercy once again. She might call herself Sinvik Shielding, with a keen soul and a heart so sturdy it beat for the both of you.

But most of the time she couldn’t tell friend apart from foe. They tended to look the same at first, and then again by the end when all ‘d been said and done you were left with ashes and hurt.

She tilted her head to the side again, rested her cheek against the tough fabric of the seat. Redfield kept his eyes closed. He hadn’t fallen asleep, had he?

So. Yeah. Where _did_ you meet people?

Well, you met them when they were still in one piece, soul and all. They’d box you out of trouble and fret over nothing while you lay squashed under a fresh corpse. He’d been worried then, hadn’t he? There’d been genuine concern in his muddy blue eyes. Compassion. _Heart_. A good heart, a stalwart heart, one that beat true. And if she’d paid attention, if she’d not been all absorbed in her own selfish greed for a fairness she didn’t deserve?

Sadja frowned.

What then? What if she’d looked, looked close and without the hurry she’d been in? Instead of a furnace bleeding dark agony, what would she have seen? Something sturdy and righteous? Something _worthy_? Would it have given her pause, convinced her not to fight? Would it have made a difference? Maybe not to her, but to him?

Was this her fault? Was _he_ her fault?

_Irrelevant._

She hadn’t wasted a thought on him back then, only on her own self-serving flight. And so he’d gone and tried to shoot her to bits.

_Friend or foe, Sadja. How do you ever tell them apart?_

“At a bar,” Redfield offered, cut right through her thoughts with half a whisper that took the edge off the usual gruff. His blinkers remained stubbornly shut.

“Mh, a pub,” Sadja echoed the only truth known to him. Maybe forgetting things wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

_What if?_

She would really fancy meeting someone in a bar, with all the bluster, thick smoke and golden swirl of alcohol turning in a glass. Not while crossing swords, or while death nipped at her heels. Not while you bled, or cried. Not while you clawed at the world with fingers encrusted in mud and filth. No, just shoulder to shoulder, at the edge of a bottle.

At the edge of something simple.

Egita seemed to agree. The cheerful woman went to retell how she’d met her husband at her sisters wedding, God bless her eternal soul, and how they’d gone and done that and then how, and… Sadja really wasn’t paying attention.

Instead she watched the first man she’d ever met at a bar, how his shoulders rose and fell with each steady breath, and his eyes remained closed to the world around him.

 _What if,_ she wished.

It took them an hour, Sadja guessed, until the scenery passing the windows changed from snow crusted land and sad skeletal woods to concrete and bright lights flitting through the night. They crossed a river too, one much wider than the one she’d grown used to in the past twenty days. Ice clung to its banks, but the black waters still flowed steadily. A few minutes later and Egita brought their ride to a stop in an almost empty, brightly lit lot.

“We here,” she informed them. “Good place. Taxi and hotel are close.”

Redfield was out even before Egita snuffed out the vehicle’s engine. He headed for the back of the car and popped the hatch open. That amused the old lady for reasons unknown, and she winked at Sadja before reaching over and grabbing her hands. Egita had a firm grip, unyielding and very much eager to give her a good shake. Sadja complied.

“Atā,” she said. “Goodbye.”

“Atā,” Sadja echoed, and Egita tittered happily.

“And Good luck,” she added. “Veiksmi.”

“Thank you.” Sadja pulled her hands free, inclined her head in her own honest thanks, and joined Redfield as he stood by the side of the vehicle with the bags around his feet. A freshly lit smoke had appeared between his lips. The bead of embers danced listlessly up and down.

Sadja lifted her eyes away from him and took in the bleak concrete all around them, one blocky building after the other, all illuminated by bright white lights. There were green lights too, and red lights, and yellow ones and tall and wide panes with pictures on them showcasing all sorts of things peculiar to her.

 _No beaches. Still cold._ Her stomach rumbled.

Sadja slid her hands into the pockets of her coat and looked up at Redfield. His eyes darted across the cityscape ahead of them, searching, thinking.

_Where to then, Sir?_

She turned to face him. “What now?”

He shrugged. “You hungry?”

“Starving.”

Redfield offered her the faintest of nods, snatched up two of the bags, and started walking.

 _Might have been your fault,_ the fledgling Keeper thought. _Might be you’re just flotsam and jetsam and it really wasn’t. Either way…_ She hefted up the last remaining duffel and hurried after the man she met at a bar. _’… what if?_


	14. UNTZ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Redfield finds himself a shiny set of new wheels, and Sadja meets death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll learn a little more about Sadja in this one. What it means to be a Cad'his, at any rate, and just how shaky her and Sinvik's relationship was at the start of it all. As a reminder 《 marks memories.

**UNTZ**

* * *

 

**US Arrests 5 Suspected of Ties to Neo-Umbrella**

In early morning raids Friday in New York, police has seized 5. No reports were confirmed that the agents were in possession of viral agents.

**Mass Evacuation in Dhaka, Bangladesh, as Bioterrorism Attack Strikes.**

2013 is promising no relief, as Neo-Umbrella has declared itself responsible for yet another attack only minutes before the first reported incidents of viral infections were confirmed during the night of the 15th of January. Local military efforts aided by the B.S.A.A are still ongoing. TerraSave has yet to release an estimate on casualties of the attack, which has hit the global community hard so soon after the civil war in Edonia escalated late December.

 

 **S** adja’s eyes skipped from headline to headline. Grisly things unfurled on the pages, barely made room for things of a more pleasant nature. Most of it, she admitted, sounded like straight out gibberish to her. Many a word was made of letters that looked randomly strung together, the _BeeEssAyAy_ outfit amongst them, and she’d still not figured out what half of them meant.

But really now, where was the good news? People needed jovial tales in times of need, not the recounting of large scale terror, or countries drowning themselves in debt. Not the tallies of shootings either. Tre go pinch her, they even paid attention to small time muggings. Where were the festivities? The heroes dressed in their victory’s colours?

None of that. Just an overwhelming amount of sadness, gathered together in small letters and still pictures, coming together from across oceans and wide expanses of land Sadja couldn’t quite fathom. She found it difficult to wrap her head around how quickly news traveled here. To think of the reach a single voice had, how easily it spread across a world filled to the brim with souls.

What if, she puzzled, you didn’t have to wait a good ten turns to hear from the Southern Gates if you lived North by the Divide? Or what about the Buckle, that bloody wall of mountains keeping you from knowing whatever aristocratic tomfoolery the folks below were up to. By the time their exploits reached across, they’d already fallen out of fashion.

_That’d be mighty convenient…_

It might also be quite the treat to not have to rely on the artistic gift of whoever witnessed an event if you wanted to get a good picture of things. The general folk’s imagination only ever stretched so far. Or, rather, barely made it past the tips of their own noses most of the time.

Sadja tilted her head and gently tapped a finger against the gnarly looking thing in black and white confined to the bottom half of page 6. It might as well have been lumbering right at her. Tall, barrel-chested, hunched forward. Fleshy trunks and bulging muscles protruded from its broad shoulders. It had claws too, attached to strong looking hands too large for comfort, and thick arms that reached all the way down to crooked looking knees. She squinted. It had scales of sorts, a hard shell that kept muscle and flesh contained, and from that shell protruded a small, distorted head.

A human head. Or what might have once been one.

Monstrosities the fledgling Keeper could cope with, but the eyes on that thing gave her pause. More or less still clinging on to some humanity, their wide stare looked out of place.

Hatred sat in them. Hatred and agony that stared blindly towards whoever had captured its likeness. And hatred, that was a _human_ thing, not meant for beasts. So what was it? Beast or man? Man or beast? It had a name, regardless. And a designation, too.

 _A weapon of bioterrorism,_ **Napad** spelled the tiny letters below the picture.

Sadja lifted her eyes from the paper.

Across of her, Redfield read the crown of his morning coffee. An untouched slice of toast sat next to it. Nothing new there.

Sadja remembered herself lying flat on her back with a corpse pinning her down, and how he'd stood over her with an emblem stitched to his person that proclaimed him a property of the  _BeeEssAyAy._

Her head tilted sideways a little more, and she spelled the letters out in a soundless whisper as she looked at the man engrossed in gleaming a secret from his cooling beverage. It must have been a terrible one if the scowl on his brow was to be any indication.   

Or he was just being him. Redfield the Grouch.

Sadja glanced back at the pages. That’s what he’d left behind. Where he’d come from. A tall order, she figured, considering the lettering for topics around it was by far the fattest. And certainly the grimmest.

“What’s Bioterrorism?” she asked.

His shoulders rose in a faint, apathetic shrug. As nonchalant as that came to look, the distressed jolt of his soul flared brightly. A sore spot, that, Sadja noted and swallowed the row of questions she had lined up.

_Next time. Maybe._

He’d earned himself a little respite, having been a good sport ever since they’d fled Edonia. Hadn’t argued. Hadn’t scoffed. Had just… grouched his way alongside her. Burning her a bit, but not downright scorching her.

She flipped to the next page.

By page eight things finally turned a shade more pleasant. Still nonsensical, but less murderous. And at page ten the grey-scaled curves of a naked woman stretched from top to bottom.

“Huh.”

Sadja cocked her head to the other side, and cast a look at Redfield with his untouched plate. Toasty white bread. Cheese. Ham. Her stomach rumbled.

“Trade?” she offered and pushed the paper across the table. When he didn’t acknowledge her, or the paper with its busty decoration, she reached out to grab his food anyway.

He didn’t look up from his coffee, or utter a word of protest. But before she could pinch the tantalising slice of bread, Redfield pushed the plate out of reach with a lazy swipe of his hand. Then he snatched the newspaper and folded it shut, not dignifying it with even just a sideways glance.

“Spoilsport,” Sadja accused him.

He nodded, his chin dipping and rising so bloody faintly he might not even have bothered. Along with it came the whisper of a smile though, enough to turn the corners of his mouth into the thickening stubble of his beard.

Sadja very much liked it.

* * *

 **W** hite bored her, she concluded. For one, it was bloody everywhere. White snow dusted the world after another quiet morning. White clouds drifted across the skies, all lazy like and puffy. And if things weren’t white then they were grey and they were drab, and grey— grey was just about as bad as white.

So when Redfield led her between the rows of metal beasties, on a mission with his eyes critically measuring their prospects, she rather hoped he wouldn’t pick _white._

He did.

Of course he picked white.

It didn’t look as dreadfully _meh_ as the van thing that had died on them the day before, but there were quite a few much more exciting looking things sitting under the grey winter skies than this wide, thick wheeled _car_.

Car. What was that supposed to mean? Had they just gone and nicked the _T_ from cart and called it a day when they’d named their metal beasts of burden?

Sadja frowned at the thing, along with Redfield, who’d found himself cornered by an eager looking man hovering by his side. The salesman’s English was better than Egita’s by far, and he seemed to enjoy jabbering on about the car and why it was the perfect choice, too. Just like a horse trader, Sadja thought. All willing to squeeze you for any coin you didn’t even know you were willing to spend.

A _Volvo_ thingamajig, he called it, with something litres by something else and bla-bla about service and _could he just shut up_?

Redfield seemed to share that sentiment. The way he let the words whisk right past him while he inspected the beastie gave it away. And then there was that look on his face, the one that told her he was ready to either throw money at the man, or land a punch, whichever one would allow him to be on his way again the fastest.

A shame, she thought. He’d been doing so well all morning, and if she’d not had to deal with his soul smoldering beyond her gates, she might have even mistake him for a somewhat functioning human being.

And then the anxiety had come knocking.

Out of the blue, too. Like it had spilled right out of his coffee cup and howled after him as he’d high tailed it out of the quaint little bakery they’d sat in two hours ago. If she’d not hurried after him he might have just left her behind. Because who needed money and who needed his bags, when your past came knocking and reminded you that you’d been sitting still for a little too long and better get moving before you had to face some truth or the other.

_Poor creature._

Sadja watched Redfield pull open the driver side door and slide into the seat. Was he about to make up his mind? Probably. Anything to get him back on the road. Her eyes darted across the lot again. They settled on the same stark red thing she’d spotted walking here, the one he’d walked past and ignored while she’d stood and stared. Its roof didn’t stand as tall, the wheels weren’t as big, and there wasn’t as much space either. And she certainly didn’t know anything about litres and whatnot, but she liked the front of it, those narrowed blinkers that seemed to say it wasn’t about to take any shit from other beasties on the road.

She walked up to the boring beastie he’d settled himself in, bent forward by the hip, and stuck her head into the cabin to peer at Redfield behind the wheel. A quick sniff over her gates confirmed that the bloody bastard was all up in arms in there. His soul thrashed wildly and singed her something fierce, especially with her _barr_ tugged away on her belt and her standing so close to him, bravely leaving her gates cracked open.

“What?” He snapped.

That one stung, might even have taken a chunk right out of her. Sadja frowned. She’d almost forgotten how volatile the man was, all things considered, had allowed herself to be lulled into thinking the bear had lost his bite during the last two days. Evidently she’d been wrong.

“Well, does the music thing work?” she prodded.

_Playing with fire again, are we?_

Redfield’s soul stopped tearing at hers and his right eyebrow arched.

“The radio? Dear God, I hope not.”

***

 **C** hris caught the frown on her, and briefly thought about feeling apologetic. The tight knot in his stomach and the noose that seemed to string around his throat wasn’t her fault. That he wanted to be long gone by now, that wasn’t her fault either. It was just…

_What?_

Too much? _What_ was too much? Her? No. The road? No. Chris clenched his jaw. If he could just get that fucking key to the car, _any_ car, really. Didn’t matter which one, as long as he could roll out of the lot and drive until he ran out of gas. Drive forward. Somewhere. Anywhere. Just not here.

“Well, does the music thing work?”

Sadja dragged him back from halfway across Europe and brought his thoughts of running to a screeching halt. The noose let up too, gave him room to breathe. She was leaning into the car, honey coloured eyes scanning the interior. Wisps of auburn hair snuck from under the dark woollen cap.

“The radio?” He arched an eyebrow. _Ha…_ “Dear God, I hope not.”

She glanced at him. A quick smile made short work of the frown she’d worn before, and Chris felt more of his anxiety exiting the stage along with it.

“Is it expensive?” she asked then.

“Seven thousand,” Chris lifted a hand to indicate the sheet of paper with the price in the windshield. _She can read, can’t she?_

Her head tilted ever so slightly. “And that is…”

“…expensive? Yes.”

Now she was furrowing her brows at him.

“You can afford it,” he muttered under his breath and lifted himself from the car. “Just don’t tell _him_ that.”

While he argued his sanity for the up-tenth time, Sadja stood with her hands hidden in the pockets of her long coat and a stare levelled at the salesman hovering close. Was she seizing the poor man up? Did Chris have to worry about that slight narrow tilt of her eyes and the determined whisper of a smirk? What was that girl thinking about this time?

_Robbing the man? Just taking the car?_

Was he about to be the Clyde to her Bonnie?

There was that noose again, hitching at his throat.

“What about that one?” She lifted an arm and pointed at a bright red Audi a few cars down to the left.

“S6! 5.2 litres V10 engine,” the salesman piped up excitedly. Smelling blood already, and going in for the kill.

Chris pinched the bridge of his nose.

_Why?_

_***_

“ **I** saw that,” Sadja told Redfield as he sat behind the wheel of their new and still happily purring metal beastie. Not only had it lasted a day and night already, but she also rather liked the way the leather seat wrapped around her and how the front dash lit up. The music sounded better in here, too. And if she was one to guess, Redfield liked it just as much, even though he’d been adamant to gripe about her choice.

Over and over and _over_ again.

“Saw what?”

Night rolled by outside as he sent them down the wide, two-lane road. Sent them down it fast, Sadja guessed by how she’d been pushed back into the seat and how their beastie had spat out a pitched growl. That’s what had cracked the scowl on his face, and set his lips in a delighted smirk.

“You _smiled_ , Redfield. There might have even been a twinkle in your eyes.”

His stare cut to her, then quickly back to the road. And just like that he tamed the beastie and tucked the smirk away too.

_Oh bloody hell man, lighten up._

He didn’t.

So Sadja gave one of the dials on the radio a twist to turn the music up, and rolled her head to the right. Out in the early night civilisation cropped up around them. It started slow, as it so did, with houses clustering closer together, warm and welcoming light defying the dark. There were more cars here too, but Sadja liked to believe they’d dive out of the way when their beastie came prowling in, despite how well behaved it was.

“Where we going?”

“We’re in Vienna,” Redfield offered. All curt and to the point.

“Will we stay here?”

“No.” He switched off the radio.

Arse.

 _Why not,_ she could have asked, but watched the forest of concrete swallow them whole instead. Another big city dipped in winter.

_Bollocks. No beaches for you, Sadja._

And another night spent in the first best _hotel_ (as Redfield called them), followed by a breakfast had in silence with a furnace across of her. Then back on the road. Just another cut and run from Redfield’s private demons. Oh how she’d love to get to know them better. Having a stern word with them might help.

Their beastie rocked as it was swung up a narrow path, then bucked some more as they hit cobbled streets. When it stopped, Sadja watched Redfield flee the car without hesitation. She craned her neck to watch him yank open the backdoor and root about to fetch their things.

He picked up routines quick. Next he’d be leading the way into the hotel he’d chosen at random and she’d trail behind him and follow him to wherever he chose to drop their belongings.

Sadja sniffed, pulled her legs up and pushed her door open. The warm confines of the beastie’s belly gave way to the cold night, and the silence to a steady, thick thrum that hit the air and snuck into her chest. As if someone was beating on gigantic, hollow bells just below the crust of the earth. Gentle vibrations teased the soles of her feet and pushed against her ears. Curiosity snatching at her, Sadja cracked open her gates. She let herself slip forward and scout along the wavering edges of Elaya’s sheltering hem.

_Pah._

Nothing but the wonderfully still and empty plane out there, with soothing silence stretching as far as she dared to quest. A quip at most stirred the hem - well, that and the walking furnace, of course, which was currently hauling her duffels and his knapsack towards a revolving door some ways ahead.

What was that noise then?

She stood listening, looked up the cobbled road and then down. There were lights strung across of it, bright beads that twinkled golden and formed heavyset globes and snow flake patterns. One globe or flake for each string of light. Pretty.

And pointless. They likely ate up a lot of energy for very little practical use, if any at all besides decoration. Wasteful. Bit like a lot of things she’d witnessed since she’d staggered through the Cataract.

A door across the street opened and caught Sadja’s attention. It stood apart from the other entryways lining the buildings, with purple light framing the entrance and a bright red lightning bolt fixed above it. When the door swung open, three people piled out, along with music loud enough to send the ground a-shiver. And there came the thrum, a steady beat that set the rhythm of the tune. It reminded her of the Seditio’s engine spooling up. That always sent quivers through the whole ship and it’d tickle your spine if you stood on the right plate. Though it didn’t do it just as well.

Sadja took a tentative step towards the sound and let her gates fall open fully.

Behind the door hid a tight knot of souls, a hue and cry of emotions whirled entangled in perfect chaos. They teased her from afar with their simplicity and their almost perverse willingness to be heard and tasted.

“Huh.”

Nothing was kept at bay in there. No guarded minds reeled in joy or sorrow. Much like back in the bars and the dens she’d roamed back in Edonia. Though here elation was what set the tune, not gloom and simple quiet.

 _How do you live like that? All exposed, all open? All throwing yourself out to the world to see, not worrying about who might get a whiff of who you are and what’s it you want and need? What you_ really _need._ Really _want?_

***

 **C** hris needed a drink, a cigarette, and a bed. Preferably in that order, and preferably right now. He rolled his stiff shoulders, stretched the tight muscles on his back, and cast a look over the facade of the hotel. Dirty white walls with a hint of yellow. Old, well kept. Ornate patterns mimicking baroque style ran along the arches, marking the revolving doors at the entrance. They decorated windows and corners alike, and gave the place an air of class. Maybe he should have stopped on the outskirts. Yeah. Should have. Next time he would, now all he wanted was that drink, cigarette and bed.

_Let’s hope they take cash._

Chris lugged the three bags through the revolving doors and into the wide reception hall. Dark, tiled floor, red carpets and matching drapery. He swept the area, noted the hotel lounge with its handful of patrons, and vowed to join them as soon as he dropped off the bags and his burden.

Said burden, as he noticed a moment later, was no-where to be heard or seen though. No quiet footsteps padded behind him and no questions badgered his ears.

Sadja had vanished.

Chris threw a look at the revolving doors. They sat unmoving. The noose settled around his neck again. It gave a gentle tug.

_For the hundredth time, get a fucking grip._

He discarded thoughts of vanishing Sadjas and tipped himself into a decent room.

_So she’s run off. Big deal._

Then he rode an ancient looking, narrow elevator up to the third floor.

_‘Maybe she got tired of you, Redfield.’_

From there he stepped into yet another musty hotel hallway. A patterned wine coloured carpet softened his footfalls.

_Or she’s down in the reception, worked up that you ditched her._

He slid the keycard through the lock on number 320. Stepped inside. Back down the hallway the elevator door dinged and shuddered open. Chris tossed the duffels and knapsack into the room, and leaned back out into the hallway. Two women stepped from the elevator, but no Sadja trailed behind them.

_Not your problem, Redfield._

Chris took in the room. ‘ _Fancy.’_ Flowing green curtains. Double bed set in an ebony frame, white linen sheets, checkered-red white duvet. Long couch by the windows, with a narrow table at its foot. Two moss green comforters pulled up alongside it. Big TV. Spacious bathroom.

Mini-bar.

_Jackpot._

Maybe he’d head downstairs later, after a drink or two. And maybe he’d find her in the lobby, or standing out in the cold, all pouts and scowls.

_Or she’s gone._

Chris glanced at the duffels lying on the floor. The noose tightened.

_Ever thought you’d be rich, Redfield?_

***

《 《 **T** he new _barr_ itched something fierce. It had never occured to Sadja she’d miss the bindings worked into her, their steady, painful pressure against her arms that she’d never think to live without. But now she did, and instead of finding herself a subtle band of sorts, she’d had to borrow this. This thing, this _scarf_ or _shawl_ or whatever you wanted to call it, was anything but inconspicuous. And yes, it itched all sort of ways up to Hell. Sadja snuck her left hand between her neck and the soft fabric, and rubbed at the irritated skin. Then she ran her hands through the cropped short remains of her hair and scratched at that too.

“Will I have to worry about fleas around you?”

Sinvik’s voice demanded her attention, slipped through the steady murmur of the pub around them, the clinks of glasses, the laughter, the grunts and the coughs and the shifting of feet against wood. And then it crept into her ear. She hated the husky edge to it, and the melodic, steady rhythm. Hated how it made her feel.

Never before, no-where in her eighteen years, had Sadja been faced with a voice lording over her emotions as efficiently as Sinvik’s. She played them like the strings on a bloody fiddle. Anger. Fear. Confusion. A bit of envy and a whole lot of desperation.

Sadja glowered across the table. Well, okay. Mostly anger.

It was what the Keeper deserved right then, with her faint smirk and amber eyes promising challenges kept unspoken. For now, at least.

“With a bitch like you around?” Not the most creative of comebacks, she had to admit, and followed it with a frustrated sigh that strained her still sore throat.

Sinvik’s eyes widened in mock offence and she tapped a finger against her chin. A scarred finger, belonging to the scarred remains of her right hand. “I groom well, love. But if you think I could do better, maybe you should join me in the bath house next time. Get the hard to reach spots, why won’t you?” She winked at her, all mirth and glee, and Sadja glowered back, all death and plain loathing.

“No? Haw.” The Keeper shrugged and then nodded towards her with a decisive jerk of her chin. “Ready for round three?”

Gone was the playful teasing, and Sadja could have sworn her voice had dipped a little lower. Gotten itself confused between threatening and caring. What was that woman all about anyway?

Sadja’s stomach twisted into a tight knot and she dropped her hand from her scalp. Round _three_ of having the borrowed _barr_ pulled from her neck in the middle of a bustling watering hole full of colourful folks with equally colourful souls. Loud souls, aggressive souls. Souls that’d scream at her and slam themselves against her unsteady gates the moment the binding lifted.

No, she was not ready for round _three_. She’d not been ready for round one either though, let alone number two.

Her eyes fell away from Sinvik and landed on her bandaged right arm. Then her left. Clean, bright orange cloth hid the broken, seeping skin from sight. The strips wound evenly across her, starting with her elbow and eventually looping around her shoulders. Each time Sinvik changed the bandages for her, the Keeper took her time. She worked the cloth around the wound with great care, using the same set of hands that were capable of unspeakable things with blade or staff or knife— or a pencil, apparently. Right now they entertained themselves by drawing the two barmaids of the place. They were an interesting enough pair, with their bodies covered in thick, colourful brushstrokes, rather than clothing, and their long braided hair crowning delicate faces locked in perpetual smiles.

Sadja’s eyes settled on the black and white depiction of the women, while Sinvik let the pencil continue its journey along a particularly detailed left breast.

“You’re not about to murder them, are you?”

The pencil paused.

“Murder them? No. You’ve got me confused with the Pariah there, love. But you’re dreadful company, so what’s a girl to do but find her own amusement.”

Sadja looked up, saw the heavy stare she levelled at her.

“The Pariah,” Sadja continued, eagerly latching on to something - anything - to talk about that wasn’t _round three._ “Did he learn how to draw just so he could paint his marks?”

Her eyes darted from the drawing back to the Keeper, and caught another brief smirk lifting her thin lips.

“Tell me, love, did you learn how to wield a knife so you could get to someone’s heart?” Sinvik asked and jabbed the pencil against her chest. Sadja swatted it aside.

“What?”

“No, you learned how to cut your food, much like you chop wood with an axe more often than you’re about to hack someone’s limbs off, am I right?”

Sadja frowned. “Well, yeah. Except I didn’t really—”

“And you learn to hunt beasts with a bow, not man. And—”

She tossed her hands up, swatting an elbow into the table’s edge. It made the single, wax covered iron stud at its center wobble and almost knocked her drink over.

It also shut up the Keeper though, and at Sadja’s stammer of: “Yah. Okay, I get it.” Sinvik nodded almost solemnly before returning her attention back to the drawing.

Sadja folded her arms tightly, one hand idly rubbing at the smarting elbow, and did her best to just her chin out.  

“Is there anything you’re good at that doesn’t end with you killing someone or making them wish you had?”

_Like binding your wounds, Stupid?_

Sinvik cocked her head. She ran her scarred hand up behind her ear, sliding it out of sight into her long, light brown hair. Now there was a mock gesture of deep reminisce if Sadja had ever seen one.

“Mmmh” Sinvik hummed, and once again her voice made it easily across the din of the room and settled itself around Sadja’s chest.

A bit like a predator cat’s uninvited purr.

Then the Keepers shoulders twitched in a shrug.

“Kissing,” she proclaimed. Her head tilted to the side, the smirk with all its mirth and bluster back on her lips. “I excel at that. Or so I was told.”

Sadja puffed out an irritated sigh.

Irritated, because she hated her smug reply, and how Sinvik found her eyes before she dropped them back to the table and the drawing in front of her. Irritated, because she might have seen the colour creeping up her neck. Irritated, because she read her, each move she dared, each breath she took. Irritated, because Sinvik Shielding was Sinvik Shielding, and she despised everything the woman stood for; A lack of rules, a lack of thought for anything but herself, and an abundance of self serving bullshit. All of that, and her standing between Sadja and the death she had craved.

_Just get it over with then…_

She reluctantly tugged at the end of her _barr_. Though before she could break the binding, Sinvik snatched her wrist in a gentle grip.

“Tsk,” she hissed. “I asked you if you’re _ready_. Are you?”

“What does it matter?”

“I’m here to teach you, not torture you. So, love, which one is it? A yes or a no?”

Sadja twisted her wrist and to her surprise Sinvik opened her hand to give her just enough room to move.

“Nh…” she admitted and the Keeper’s hand dropped away.

“You’ll know when you are. And that is when we’ll start round three.” 》》

 **S** adja glanced at the red slip of paper she’d gotten from that purple haired girl that had taken her coat. It had a number on it, along with the lightning bolt that decorated the place both inside and out. “Don’t lose it,” the girl had said and smiled at her brightly. It was a very pretty smile. So, Sadja decided, she’d not lose it, and stuffed the slip into the front pocket of her trousers before making her way down a tight stairwell at the end of a brightly lit hallway.

In here it was dark. Disorienting flashes of purple and white light led the way along the walls pressing in around her, guiding her ever closer to the loud thrum of music sating the air. At this point Sadja wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d been able to taste it on her tongue if she so chose to. She certainly _felt_ it, resonating against her and striking at her bones as if they too were meant to play a tune.

Her gates had remained shut tight since she’d crossed the street, but they were ready to be flung apart and let the chaos in. They might have even trembled slightly in their imaginary voidmite hinges, begging her to shoulder them open and let the world in and her _out._

_What are you doing, Sadja?_

It was a good question, if a little too late. She’d already come this far, and with each step she drew closer to bedlam of souls stringing her along. Soon they’d surround her. Wrap her up inside them and splinter her gates.

But for now they held and she hid behind them like she’d been taught to.

_What’s gotten into you?_

The strange music swallowed her whole as she reached the bottom of the stairs, and an ocean of wild souls washed against her gates. A wide, dark room spread out ahead of her. Beams of light pulsed from the ceiling, setting the shadows alight with colours that darted about madly. Across the floor, bodies pushed close to each other and wove patterns with the alien rhythm setting the scene.

It was hot down here. Her chest prickled with perspiration. So damn hot.

 _Bad idea,_ Sadja tried to cautioned herself as she followed a gap in the crowd. Was that fog over there? Indoors? Whyever would they? _How_? A rampart giggle turned itself upside down in her stomach. She’d have to find out. Would have to make her way through all those bodies to find the source of the white mists. Even the beast growled with some degree of amusement— and maybe a little bit of want.

Except it wasn’t the fog that had her attention, but the knocking at her gates, and with a last shaky breath, Sadja decided she had nothing to fear. She was _Cad’hi_ s. No need to cower from the meek wisps sharing Elaya’s hem with her.

The fledgling Keeper steeled herself and flung the gates open. Wide.

Joy; Indiscriminating euphoria beating in tune with the music. A lack of _restraint_ , of fear and mistrust.

She’d not known what to expect, and certainly not held herself ready for what met her out there.

Sadja sucked in a startled breath as it all rolled over her. Raw, untainted passion broke in waves against her from all sides. It pushed her left, then right and dragged her forward deeper into the room and into the mass of warm bodies. Her skin prickled. Her neck flared with heat.

And not a single soul skirted from her path as she walked.

They let her taste their colours. Let her wrap herself around their whimsical shapes. They let redraw them any way she wished, only to snap back to be who they were and who they’d forever be once she let go. Within the chaos were no boundaries. These souls didn’t shy away from each other, didn’t keep themselves tightly reined in. They pressed into each other. Entwined as if they were all one, and created a rush of things so intoxicating, Sadja thought she’d found herself conscious for the very first time. Either that, or her head was about to separated from her shoulders and float to the ceiling where it’d ride the beams of wild light.  

_”Sadja.”_

Gravity snatched at her feet. A familiar voice cut at her, and what had been the song of uncounted souls thrumming with bliss, turned to the harsh whispers and cries of fear. Bitter cold rushed at her, a blizzard made from shards of ice closing in fast.

Sadja slammed her gates.

The emotions fell away. The whispers reduced themselves to the white noise she’d grown so used to. And then came the blizzard, pelting her gates a heartbeat after she’d shut them.

Around her, the music hadn’t stilled. It was still as loud as before, maybe even more so, with each beat rattling her skull almost painfully. Sadja whipped around, back to where she’d come from. Bodies blocked her, caught up in their feverish display of dancing around each other with their feet sending the whole world to tremble. They pressing close. Too close. She staggered between them, her elbows thrust up to try and keep them at bay.

They jostled her from the left and the right, knocking into her as if _she_ was the one invisible, not _him_ , the impossible Ceat who came to taunt her with an _”I’m right here.”_ while he followed her. Where she had to veer to the side when a particularly avid dancer stood in her way, all he had to do was slide right by, walking a steady pace that she couldn’t shake.

Eventually, she broke from the packed floor and found the stairwell she’d come down oh so willingly and enthusiastically minutes before. Now all she wanted was _out_ , so the fledgling Keeper fled. Two steps at a time she stumbled up the stairs. Her lungs screamed for air that didn’t freeze her from the inside, and her heart threatened to fall apart in her chest.

Her vision blurred too, but she couldn’t feel the tears against her flush skin.

 _”Where are you going?”_ Ceat called after her.

The lights in the tight staircase dimmed with each step that she took, as if the flashes of purple and white had themselves sucked into the pitch black one beat of her heart at a time. By the time she reached the top, they had almost winked out.

No.

The lights were still there. Had to be. It had been bright as day up here where she’d left her coat behind. One long, white hallway, that’s what this should be.

Sadja blinked her eyes.

_No…_

She rubbed at them with the back of her hand, tried to wipe the sheet of darkness from them.

 _Please. No. Not now. Not yet. Please,_ she pleaded, but her eyes remained unseeing.

_I’m not ready, please!_

_”There’s no running from the Wasting, Sadja. Why won’t you come sit with me?”_

Her right shin slammed into something solid. She staggered to the side, almost tripped over her own feet, and only just caught herself against a wall.

“Sind Sie okay?” The purple haired girl’s voice barely made it through the panicked reeling of her mind. So caring. So concerned. She’d had a pretty smile. Why couldn’t she see her pretty smile?

_Irrelevant. You’re dying._

_”Come_ on _Sadja. Sit down.”_

Her ears rung with a high pitched whine. Her stomach lurched. The dark world around her titled.

_No… not yet…_

She fell.

Shot, she’d figured. Stabbed or beheaded. Crushed maybe. Strangled or burnt or drowned.

Anything.

_Not like this._

Blown from an airlock. Run over by a horse. Tumbling down a mountain. Or eaten alive by a Reaper.

_Anything else. Please…_

Not crying on a cold floor. Without a coat. It was cold. Sadja would have really liked her coat. It’d be a bit better then. Dying. She’d like to die warm. That’d be nice.

 _Get up,_ the world demanded and shook her thoughts free.

_I can’t. I’m cold._

Her forehead rested against the solid ground and her breathing came in ragged and entirely too slow gasps. Her lungs felt wrong. Soggy. Her heart beat heavily and with difficulty, as if every squeeze of it robbed her of another beat and left her one step closer to the silence.

A silence she’d wanted. Craved. A silence she’d been denied many a year ago, and forgotten about since then.

She tried to draw in a breath. Her lungs refused, left her with air trapped in her mouth and a scent of rain wrapping itself around her.

She’d said she’d fight.

But she couldn’t fight this. Not any more. Didn’t need to. Didn’t want to.

Even if she’d have liked to tell Sinvik she was sorry. For not believing in her sooner. For abandoning her. For not saying goodbye.

For— her right arm set itself alight. It flared with pain and moved, despite her not wanting it to. It yanked itself upwards, evoked a pained yelp from a throat that suddenly remembered how breathing worked.

“Get up,” Redfield growled at her as he pulled her to her feet. His grip was scalding hot and painfully tight. Her eyes blinked through a sheen of tears, and there he stood. Angry and confused.

_What the…_

The brightly lit corridor stretched out behind him, and they’d been surrounded by curious faces turned her way. Even the purple haired girl had joined them, her mouth hanging open, and Sadja’s coat clutched in her arms.


	15. How to save a Life (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sadja asks herself "Why", and Redfield turns a little more neighbourly.

**HOW TO SAVE A LIFE (1)**

* * *

>  ❛ **Night 26**
> 
> _”Shielding.”_
> 
> _That was the third time he’d ever called me by name since I’d found him discarded by the side of the road, limping through that one night with the skies alight with colour. I thought him ready to accuse me of something, the way he rolled it off his tongue… I’d slighted him, somehow, hadn’t I? And now he’d judge me for a terrible crime, not caring a bit that I’d just had me an ungraceful scuffle with death on a dirty, cold floor. That Arse. He didn’t care one bit that my hands were shaking —_ ❜

Sadja narrowed her eyes at the unsteady curves of her writing. The pencil quivered in her left hand and a vexed sigh fled her nose. ❛ _Are. Are shaking._ ❜ she corrected herself. The Keeper gave her wrist one last glower, tightened the grip on the pencil, and continued to pour last night into the waiting pages.

> ❛ _Redfield didn’t ask me what happened. Just pulled me away from the rhythmic thrum beating at my ears and those wide eyed stares, across the street and eventually into a tiny elevator with barely enough room for two. He wasn’t privy to my thoughts, or he’d have heard how I screamed at him._
> 
> _HOW DID YOU DO IT?! I screeched._
> 
> _WHAT ARE YOU?! I threw at him._
> 
> _But he just walked on, not a glance my way, not a pause in his scowl. Did he want me to beg, I wondered. Did he want me to grovel at his feet? Was that what it’d take before he’d tell me_ how _?_
> 
> _How are you not dead, Sadja Shielding?_
> 
> _No, he can’t answer that._
> 
> _Blissfully ignorant man, simple and brainwreckingly, infuriat_  ❜

— She lifted her eyes from the paper, cast a look over her shoulder into the dark room that stretched away from her island of dim light at the desk. She’d thrown a shirt over the single lamp perched in front of her, choking out most of the glow.

Didn’t need to wake the Furnace.

He was sleeping soundly enough. In the bed, of course, since the big oaf hadn’t fit on the sofa. You could barely tell he was even alive, with just the faintest of movement as his chest rose and fell gently. Yes, best let him sleep. He might ask questions if he found her hunched over the pages, all cloak and dagger like.

She grabbed the glass of water that kept her company and took a thoughtful sip, then turned back to the diary.

> ❛ _”Shielding.” Accosting me with strong intent. And then: “Sit.” A jab with his arm at the bed. I did as told, because why not? Argue for the sake of arguing? Argue to drown out the WHY?! and the HOW?! They looped in my head. Drove me to the edge of whatever little sanity I cling onto still, and sitting down, now that might help._
> 
> _So I did. Right at the foot of the bed._
> 
> _He left me there and fetched three bottles from a small fridge-thing. Then he grabbed a cushioned chair and dragged it across the room in front of me._
> 
> _Planted himself there. Filled out all the space in front of me, broad shoulders deceptively relaxed. Like he owned the slice of air in front of me. He probably did, too. Claimed it for himself and himself alone, and I’d better not breathe, because I’d need his permissions first. In written form, signed and stamped thrice over._
> 
> _So there he sat. And there I sat. And he stared at me and got my fingers nervously picking at my arms._
> 
> _After a heartbeat, or maybe two, he leaned forward, loomed there with barely half an arm’s length between us. Looked at me. The way his muddy blue eyes snatched at me I thought he’d been hearing my thoughts all along._
> 
> _That’d make things easier, wouldn’t it?_
> 
> _An offer was held up to me, water and some beer, things to fill the stomach with, and maybe to entertain it with something else than cold dread. He held water in one hand, and two bottles of beer in the other, all neatly pinched between his fingers. I couldn’t even pick sides, so I took one of each. That amused him, and his amusement prodded at me like a curious kitten swatting at a fly._
> 
> _”If you expect me to pull you from trouble one more time, then you better come clean.”_
> 
> _Of course. Why give me a break? Why let me settle down and give me a chance to set my head right before demanding me to weasel my way out of it?_
> 
> _I told him that I would, but not tonight. The water rolled from my fingers and onto the bed, and I held onto the green bottle instead. Something-something-BIER was written on it. I started picking at the label, peeling the paper away._
> 
> _HOW?! WHY?!_
> 
> _I grabbed the top, tried to twist the cap off. It cut into my palm and I made some noise that I’m too embarrassed to recall._
> 
> _”Why?” Redfield asked after I’d failed at getting to the drink. I looked up, pushed my own WHY?! and the HOW?! aside. And he still stared at me, a heavy stare, a stare that would not tolerate insubordination from me. I stared back. He frowned, stole the bottle from me (again I made some noise I’d rather not comment on), pinched his lighter from his trouser pocket and snapped the cap off the stubborn thing with a casual flick._
> 
> _What was I supposed to say? I tried on_ nothing _for size, took back the bottle, and drank from it without any thought of potential ill effect. Screw rule number 11-or-so, all about knowing what you guzzle before you go about the guzzling. He kept looking at me, only broke the stare to open his own drink. Did I really have to dignify this with an answer?_
> 
> _”Pleading the Fifth?” His right eyebrow tilted. The lighter vanished._
> 
> _”Fifth what?”_
> 
> _The eyebrow dropped again and he sighed. “You are trying my patience.”_
> 
> _I’m trying a lot more things than that, I wanted to tell him. Like holding myself together, for one._
> 
> _And maybe he read my mind then,—“_ ❜

Sadja grabbed for the glass of water as she wrote. ❛ _”—because he—“_ ❜ Her fingers missed and she knocked the glass over. It tilted and rolled, and even as she hissed “Sshhiiiit” through clenched teeth, the treacherous thing reached the edge of the table and hit the floor.

Behind her, the Furnace flared. He didn’t as much rouse from his sleep, as much as he was jolted wide awake. Like pouring fuel on innocently glowing embers, really. Sadja winced as the wild flames roared at her, and then winced some more as she turned to face a thoroughly annoyed Redfield.

“Sorry…”

* * *

 **C** hris turned his wrist up and cast a glance at his watch. Twenty-five minutes into the morning routine of coffee and local bakeries, and twenty-five minutes without a quip from her. He looked up.

The café around them was crowded. Not a single table stood unoccupied. Bubbly students, tired business men and women, washed up pensioners… and all of them busy with their own little routines. Chatting and giggling, noses stuck to laptop screens, ears pressed to phones while they rambled on, fingers joylessly flipping todays news back and forth…

And Sadja, Sadja sat there. Hadn’t even looked at the English paper he’d snatched up at a kiosk while restocking on cigarettes. He’d thought it might distract her, but instead the thing lay by her elbow, rolled up and untouched. Much like her coffee, which she held tight between her hands, but hadn’t taken a single sip from. The toast and egg on her plate was halfway gone. Halfway. By now she should have been working on serving number two.

Whenever she did raise her hands away, to eat or shove a stray hair back behind her ears, they trembled. Sometimes the shakes were subtle, quickly tamed with a twitch of her fingers. But more often than not she stared at them in frustration while she thought he wasn’t looking, and shoved them deep into her pockets or wrapped them around something solid.

It had been two days since she’d collapsed on the nightclub floor, and not quite come back around the same. She didn’t sleep, for one. At times she’d doze off in the car, a minute here, a minute there. Terrible substitutes for proper downtime, Chris thought, especially how quick they passed. Her eyes would flutter open, look about as if she’d missed some important sight. She’d blink, frown, and then stare at her hands folded in her lap.

The lack of rest was palpable on her, had left its mark. Her already pale complexion had turned ashen almost, and while Chris watched her stare out the café window, he realised she sported subtle, irregular freckles high up on her cheek bones. He’d not noticed those before.

He frowned.

She looked harried, alright. But as puffy as her eyes might be from tears he had yet to see shed, she still kept them keenly focused on the world outside. A row of school children held her attention at the moment, and she tracked them with a slight tilt of her head while they were herded across the street by their teachers. They looked like a row of ducklings, Chris thought, bright yellow raincoats pulled over them to shield them from a light winter drizzle.

He glanced back down at the map spread on the table. Not a word, not even a “ _Where we going next?_ ” His burden had turned mute.

The noose gave a tug around his neck.

With a flick of his wrist, Chris turned the map around and pushed it across the table.

“Where to?”

Sadja’s shoulder twitched slightly, as if the sound of his voice had shaken her from an open-eyed slumber.

“I’m sure you’ve got something plotted out for us already, Redfield.”

Did she _really_ have to keep calling him that? Just what was wrong with _Chris_?

He reached across the table and pulled the coffee away. Her hands were cold to the touch, much like the liquid in the cup. The fingers fell away from under his hand, and she finally turned her honey coloured eyes to him. They still provoked with each glance, defiant for the sake of defiance, he thought. But they’d lost the edge that he’d grown accustomed to. As if she’d given up on something.

_‘Must have been something damn important.’_

Chris indicated the map with a nod.

“Go ahead.”

The challenge earned an irritated sniff at the air, but she conceded and propped her elbows up on the table to peer at southern Europe spreading out in front of her.

A minute of silence ticked by. ‘ _A long minute.’_

“What about this one? It looks like a boot.”

Of course she had to change her mind again. Amsterdam. Spain. Greece. And now that he gave her a choice… The strange girl had the attention span of a lobotomised squirrel.

“Italy,” he educated her. He traced a line back up, charted a trip that would swing them back around. They’d been almost to Bucharest. But what did it matter where they went? Neither of them seemed to have much of a plan.

“And then?” He asked.

Sadja’s head twitched to the side, every so slightly, and ever so brief.

“Where are you going?” He added.

A simple question, if brought up at any simple time to any simple person. Not her, she wasn’t anywhere near that, Chris knew. She held his stare, kept her eyes locked to his, while he dug for a complicated answer to a straightforward question.

“Watch’cha mean?”

“Where will you _stop_?”

“Haven’t given that much thought, Redfield.” Not a pause in her answer, not a beat missed. “No, haven’t given that _any_ thought at all. But I’d fancy to see more. Like, what’s across the big blue that way?” She tapped at the Atlantic.

Chris pinched the bridge of his nose. What had he expected, really?

“Why won’t you cut the act?”

“Why won’t you tell me what got you wandering the streets of _what-was-it_ under the light of a thousand colours, with just a sack on your back and your dignity in tatters?”

He clenched his jaw.

“Thought so. Tit for tat, remember?”

Chris nodded. You didn’t argue with madmen, let alone women. So he let it slide, took it for whatever it might count for, and folded the map back up. There were enough things unsaid between them, the ever pressing _”I am sorry”_ the one that hounded him the most. But there was also the one that kept him turning the key whenever she climbed into the car, and kept him driving, no matter the hour, no matter the _where_.

Who, he wondered, was following who? Who strung who along, and just which one of the two needed the other one most? Was it him, because she was why he slept in the comfort of a warm and soft bed, away from the harsh winter? And, not to forget, 435 horsepower purring at his behest? Or was it her, because he’d… Chris frowned. Did one act of kindness trump his crime and wash him clear of it? She’d been about to die, up there in that loft. Murdered, in cold blood, for whatever reason he didn’t feel like exploring. Money. Greed. Chance. It didn’t matter, did it? She lived. They hadn’t. And he’d been instrumental in the outcome. He’d earned his pardon, hadn’t he?

So who followed who, and who owed who?

_‘You need a drink, Redfield.’_

He looked out into the late winter morning. No snow here, just a persistent chill and a drizzle of rain. He’d drive them through the rain, and he’d find them another place to spend the night when the sun set. On the way there, wherever _there_ was? Stop when they had to. And maybe turn up the radio, which she’d left sit in silence through the drive yesterday.

Turned out her tapping against the dash was something he’d grown familiar to, and the lack of it felt off.

“Let’s bug out then.”

Not a quip of protest, Chris noted as he got to his feet. Where was the moaning that she’d prefer to have another coffee and stuff herself with an impossible amount of food? That’d gone silent too the last two mornings, instead she grabbed her coat and pulled it from the bench.

As the coat flicked onto her shoulders, something slid from a pocket and clattered to the floor. It bounced towards his feet, and even as Sadja dove to fetch it, Chris stooped forward and picked up the battered looking thing: ‘A _phone_ . A _fucking phone_.’

He turned it around in his hand and glanced at her. Stiff shoulders, hands in her pockets. Like he caught her elbow deep in the cookie jar.

“You failed to mention that,” he accused.

“You never asked.”

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

Her bottom lip slipped between her teeth and her eyes darted left and right in a plea of innocence.

“… it’s broken?” A faint quiver in her voice, fake as they went. She wasn’t putting any effort into it whatsoever.

Chris tried the power button. The phone buzzed alive. She darted forward and grabbed for it. He lifted his arm out of reach. Quick she might be, and light and strong and all that, but _tall_ , tall, she wasn’t. Not by a long shot. So when she plucked at empty air, her eyes flashing dangerously, Chris couldn’t keep his face straight no matter how hard he tried.

The unbidden smile felt alien on his lips.

“Broken?”

“On the inside- oh come _on_ , Redfield. You don’t go nicking a girl’s things. That’s not like you, now is it?”

“It isn’t?”

“I’ve got the inkling it isn’t. So don’t be a bully and hand it back, before I’ve got to make a scene.”

A fly-by smirk came and went and she offered the palm of her right hand.

Her ‘I’s’ rolled into ‘Ah’s’ as she confronted him, the accent coming on thick and strong. It was inviting. No, that wasn’t quite the right word. Tempting. Distracting. His arm dipped slightly.

“Not getting any younger down here, Redfield.” Her fingers twitched. Hand it over, now, they demanded, and Chris slapped the phone into her waiting palm. She whisked it away into a pocket and inclined her head in thanks.

Chris sighed, picked up the newspaper, and pointed it towards the door. “Go.”

She did as told, but paused halfway there, head swivelling to glance back at the counter, at the pastries and the breads lingering there. Might be she’d changed her mind about not moaning about more food. Chris rolled the newspaper together tighter. ‘ _Might be I don’t care.’_ With an underhanded motion he slapped the paper against her backside on his way past her. She grunted. Or growled, Chris couldn’t quite tell.

It beat the silence, regardless.

“Go,” he repeated, and accepted the muttered “Arse.” she threw at the back of his head.

* * *

> ❛ **Day 30**
> 
> _There are rows upon rows of journals tucked away in the Tower’s library. And even more stashed away in the archive, strips of knowledge crammed deep into Arec technology, to be teased to life by a Sare with the means to waken them. The writings and recording date back to times when even the Nightingale was still a Demon of no consequence, and when Nath vil Paric’s grand-grand-grand parents were still mere twinkles in some clueless couple’s eyes._
> 
> _So, in short, a long fucking time back._
> 
> _They’re written by the true Keepers of old working alongside the Arec tel t’Echo, and by scholars that served them. And they continue as the Arec tel t’Echo left, allowing Sare and humans alike to watch over Trero, the Heart of All._
> 
> _Their content is wide reaching, versatile. There are clinical depictions of all things Sare. There are witness reports of flotsam and jetsam flooding worlds and how to best clean up after them. And sometimes, just sometimes, there are adventures tucked away in the dreadfully dreary studies. Grand heroics blend with small acts of grace, and great tales are spun about the villains that sought the downfall of whatever status-quo they disagreed on._
> 
> _Quite a few reads, all in all. And no, I haven’t read them all. ‘ve got fledging Keeper things to do, a lifetime of training to catch up with, and I can’t be sitting on my arse with my nose in books all day._
> 
> _Anyway._
> 
> _The day Sinvik brought me there, and told me how I was expected to live my life, was the day I should have likely turned and fled. But… I don’t know. I took it in stride, I guess? It meant nothing to me back then. After all, I had a debt to repay. I had lost all other meaning to my life. Ceat was gone. My future dashed. No one ’d come claim me from here on out. No one but her._
> 
> _And when Sinvik sat me down in the nest she’d built herself amongst the stacks of_ past, _I’d let her do so because I owed it to her. She put herself in front of me, folded her legs, and peered at me with her chin tilted upwards. Then she’d let out a startled little noise, like she’d forgotten something important, and dug a journal from her pack._
> 
> _It was a thin one, wrapped tight in bright red string, and it had a grained pen sitting atop of it._
> 
> _”You’ll be up there too, one day.” She’d indicated the shelves encasing us.”Right along with me. Help me continue this. Pick up where the last Keeper left off, because I’ve been_ dreadful _at it on my own.  Your—_ our — _words, they’ll be the instructions for those that follow.”_
> 
> _No pressure, right?_
> 
> _But at least I’ll end my legacy like all the ones before did theirs._
> 
> _With nothing._
> 
> _There’s not a single Keeper that wrote about what led up to their demise, or had their last moments captured for them. They simply_ stop _. Their work remains unfinished._
> 
> _And that leaves you to wonder. Did they all meet the same fate? The one that sits on my shoulders right now? Did they all follow the Cataract’s call one last time, and simply not return?_
> 
> _I’d like to believe some of them_ chose _not to. They might have grown weary of it all, and decided it was not worth the trouble. But that is not how it works, is it? Eventually the Cataract will call you home, and that is not a bell you easily ignore. Not for long, at any rate._ ❜

Sadja paused her writing. Her spine protested the awkward position she sat in, squeezed between the metal beastie’s seat and dashboard with her knees propped up. She arched her back and stretched her legs. Pop-pop her spine went as she straightened it out, and a pleasant tingle came with the rush of blood traveling down her legs. The journal slid from her lap and she barely caught it.

 _’What’s the point?’_ She asked herself.

Why did she even bother? It wasn’t like she had anything of relevance to say. For all intents and purposes the only thing it did was keep her fingers busy. Sadja  lifted her eyes to look out the wide window. A late afternoon spread across the horizon, its skies painted in a heavy, dark blue. Mountains scratched at the heavens, and wispy excuses for clouds crept by slowly. It was a pretty view. Serene.

And then there was Redfield, a different sort of mountain altogether, filling out a quarter of her view to the left. He leaned against the side of the beastie’s nose, and he’d been on that for a while now, too. Contemplating life and whatnot, she figured, with a bottle of beer in one hand and a smoke pinched between his fingers.

Gone was the thick coat and the long woollen thing, replaced by a simple dark grey shirt with long sleeves that he’d rolled up over his forearms. It wasn’t _warm_ here, but it wasn’t freezing your tits off cold any more either. Just a bit nippy, like the cragged hills and flats of the North that the Shieldings called home. Both sort. The born ones and the claimed ones.

Sadja watched the man.

He’d grumbled earlier today when she’d insisted they needed other things to wear than the grubby shit they’d relied on. He’d grumbled even more when he realised she wasn’t going to leave him in the… car. But Sadja hadn’t fancied Ceat barging in on her while she nicked them a new wardrobe.

Yeah.

And then he’d grumbled ‘cause she hadn’t spent a nickel. Or dime. Or.. cent.. whatever. It had been the only grumble that had come with a little bit of bite, but then she’d dropped a fancy black hat on his brow, told him he looked all dapper, and the grumbles had faded into a sigh, lamenting his eternal suffering at her whims.

Four hours later, and the grumbles were forgotten. And now? She sniffed and tilted her head.

_’By Elaya’s ample bosom, who would have thought? You look downright neighbourly.’_

A lazy tilt sat in his shoulder, head bowed slightly and not a hint of tension in sight. This wasn’t the bear ready to lunge, or the trap ready to spring. Even the heat simmering beneath the surface kept well out of sight.

Must have been the weather, Sadja figured. She lifted her left hand, leaned to the side, and punched the squishy button in the centre of the wheel.

 _HOOOOOOONK_ the beastie went.

Redfield flinched. He didn’t jerk away from the beastie, or drop his beer as she’d hoped. All he did was twitch. The fire roared viciously at first, slamming against her gates, but when his anger faded so did they, withdrawing just as quickly as they’d flared brightly a heartbeat before. Though he still glared at her, and that stare alone was scorching enough. Didn’t need his soul for that. Then he raised his right hand at her, middle finger out.

That, she had learned, was a gesture meant to offend. So Sadja lifted her fists, pinky extended on each side, and knocked them together in front of her. The challenging bull; A surefire way to get yourself into trouble back home. Here, all it got her was a confused scowl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was too long originally, so I've had to split it in two.


	16. How to save a Life (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Redfield declares himself uninterested in pineapple green smoothie and lemon poppy pancakes. Pfft. Man has no taste.

**HOW TO SAVE A LIFE (2)**

* * *

“ **W** hat _do_ you folks do to have fun?” she asked him, and Chris wondered if _strangling cheeky little shits like you_ , was an acceptable answer. He took his eyes off the road just long enough to catch the tail end of a smile on her lips before she looked back at the magazine propped up on the dash. That one fucking magazine she’d been reading loudly out of ever since they’d gotten back onto the road. And that one magazine he dearly regretted not having tossed out the window the moment she’d pulled it from that new backpack of hers. That new _stolen_ backpack of hers. He remembered all too vividly how she’d marched out the entirely wrong door, with not even a glance over her shoulder, and a backpack stuffed with brand new clothing. No big deal. No fuss. Nevermind me, her whole demeanour said. Just robbing you, nothing to see here at all.

Thieving aside, he should have known that he’d miss the silence the moment it ended.

She’d gotten her appetite back, too. Appetites, really. Including the ones that drove him up the wall. By now, Chris mourned, he knew way more about the rich and famous than he’d ever wanted to. Who did who, what scandals they involved themselves in, and what great feats of charity they committed. He also learned how to prepare a peach and pineapple green smoothie and lemon poppy pancakes.

Really? Why would he ever?

“There’s got to be more than parties and, uh, nightclubs,” Sadja prattled on.

“About those nightclubs, just how did you enjoy your last visit to one? Didn’t turn out too well, did it?”

“It— It was interesting,” she muttered. But if he’d thought the jab would shut her up, he’d been wrong.

“What about plays?” she asked and finally folded the magazine shut. _Thank God._

“Plays?”

“Mh. Costumes, paint and the retelling of grand ‘ventures.”

“Theatre…?”

“Theatre,” she echoed. “Or is everyone like you, Redfield? Do you get herded into a pen now and again, where they make you be merry with all the other dull clots for company?”

He didn’t know what a _clot_ was, though he figured he should have been offended the way she eyeballed him, lips pressed together to keep the smile from showing. Itching for a fight, was she?

“That would be what _we_ call an amusement park.” _Eyes on the road, Redfield._

“Sounds amusing. Can we go to one?”

 _No_ , he wanted to say. Though as life would have it, so stubbornly set on inflicting a different flavour of torment on him each day, the word lodged itself in his throat halfway out.

 _You’ve GOT to be kidding me_ , Chris thought as he caught sight of the ferris wheel. It taunted him, standing tall in the distance against a backdrop of snow capped mountains, verdant green wrapping around their base. The matching road sign came up next.

His foot eased up on the gas. He could ignore it. Pretend it wasn’t there. Keep going, pass the exit that was coming up fast no matter how much he slowed down. She’d be none the wiser.

“What’s that?” Sadja asked and leaned forward, staring right at the ferris wheel creeping ever closer.

He gritted his teeth. He’d looked at the fucking thing too long, hadn’t he?

* * *

 _ **I** t could have been worse, _Chris told himself and watched Sadja stare intently at the big blob of cotton candy inches from her face. _Could be summer. Could be full of people._ She turned the stick, narrowed her eyes. Then she stuck her tongue out and licked it. Chris frowned. ‘ _What the hell?_

Her eyebrows arched with obvious approval, and off she went, nibbling away at the white puff and casting glances left and right. The only thing missing was a skip in her step, and the surreal scene of a youthful display would have been completed.

He’d not asked her how old she was, but even if she only just started on her twenties ( _Dear God I hope not_ ), the curious enthusiasm she showed as she glanced at each attraction made him feel… Chris grunted. He had no idea how it made him feel. So he followed her, discarded his attempt at sorting through his thoughts, and observed his burden explore the park.

She’d wrapped her sand coloured scarf around her neck, carried it wide, much like a soldier would bind a shemagh. If it hadn’t been for that, she’d have blended in well with the thin crowd; A simple, dark green button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. And a pair of low riding jeans tugged over flat boots.

He fished a cigarette and lighter from the front pocket of his pants.

_Bullshit._

Here. The loft. The car. She didn’t fit, didn’t belong. The way she carried herself for one: Back straight, shoulders tight and hands steady (now that they’d stopped shaking). Her steps were cautious, yet determined, and her head was on the swivel for more than just the attractions. He’d bet his next beer on that.

There was more to it, though he couldn’t make sense of why she felt _disjointed_ , why she made the back of his neck itch at times, and how she set herself apart from the world with nothing more than a simple glance. Might have been the money. Might have been the weapons. Might just be because he’d had to explain to her what flipping someone off meant.

Chris lit the cigarette, took the first much needed drag from it, and let his mind wander. Maybe he ought to do some digging. Scratch at the pretty surface and see what he’d uncover. Chances were he’d regret it, but then again what was one more regret on-top all the others?

Nodding to himself, Chris set his eyes to search for a particular booth while she led him through the park.

House of Mirrors. _Nope._

Pirate ship on its pendulum. _Nope._

Ring Toss. _Where the hell is it?_

Game of Ring the Bull. _Nope._

A merry-go-round.

That held her attention for a while, had her leaning against the railing circling the thing, and stare at the meagre count of three kids clinging onto hollow metal ponies dancing in circles.

Next up came a roller coaster, which she barely glanced at, though she did turn her head briefly as the cart entered a loop and the passengers screeched.

A drop tower, boring too, it seemed.

Bumper cars.

She stopped there, looked at him, hopeful almost.

“No,” Chris growled before she could form the words, and her mouth turned down with a rare pout.

“Arse.”

And on she went.

Can Knocker. _That might work? Nope…_

Fun House. She narrowed her eyes at that one.

They’d made it almost towards the bottom of the ferris wheel when Sadja stopped again. Her hand came up and she jabbed her former cotton candy stick at a boat gliding out of sight into a heart shaped tunnel.

“Why are these people riding a swan?”

_No. Just no. Let’s pretend you never asked that._

Chris kept walking, refusing to acknowledge the question out of principle alone. She hummed an “Oooh…” a moment later and trailed after him.

The ferris wheel was looming right above them by the time he found the damn thing.

_Gotcha._

“This way,” he placed a hand gingerly against the small of her back when she tried to march past him towards her goal. The touch turned her about, tightened the muscles against the palm of his hand. Chris thought she’d move aside, or slap his arm down, but all he earned himself was a quick glance. Then she fell in step by his side, and let herself be guided towards a booth wedged between two unmanned stalls at the foot of the ever-turning ferris wheel.

* * *

 **T** his early in the year, customers were a rare treat. Worse, these days kids preferred the flashy electronic arcade games, leaving the classics to collect dust and fall into obscurity. And Valentina Alesi _was_ a classic. A very stubborn one. She refused to swap out her booth with a light show, and would continue to do so until they sent her packing. So when the two tourists wandered into sight, Valentina put on her best smile, hoisted two rifles from their racks, and placed them in front of them on the green felt surface that she tended so well.

The girl folded her hands behind her back, offered Valentina a quick smile, and then peered past her at the brass targets sitting listlessly against a backdrop of an american wild-wild-west town.

Yes, Valentina loved the classics. And there wasn’t anything more classic than that. The girl’s amber eyes took in the targets, and then stared at the prizes cluttering the side walls and hanging from the low ceiling. Her eyebrows drew together and she glanced at the tall man on her right.

They were an uneven pair, that one, Valentina decided. She was a narrow thing, with the top of her head barely cresting his broad shoulders, and he was a mountain almost, casting her in a protective shadow (as Valentina declared it to be). Valentina truly enjoyed pretending, and spinning tales about her customers as they washed up at her booth. It broke up the monotony of her work, or the lack thereof these days, and those two, they looked like an inspiration already.

Him all gruff, thick 5’o clock shadow on a square jaw and cigarette rolling between his lips. And she delicate, with hair bound tight and a light complexion, all inclusive with a cluster of subtle freckles on her cheeks.

“What's this then, Redfield?” She asked and he slid a bill over the counter.

“What does it look like?” He gave Valentina a curt nod, and she went to fetch two readily loaded magazines of .22 cartridges. They were an ocean apart in geography as well, she marveled. American and… Irish?

“Like you’re about to challenge me, is what,” the girl drawled, eyes fixed on Mister Redfield as he picked up the rifle to flick it up against his shoulder, testing it.

Great, Valentina thought with a hint of annoyance while she placed the magazines, along with one extra cartridge, next to each station. This one looked like he knew what he was doing.

“Uh-huh,” he murmured, put the rifle back down, and pulled back the bolt. Then he snapped the magazine in place and slid the single cartridge into the waiting chamber. The girl watched him. Not idly _looking_ , or admiring, but studying, recording. Then she picked up her own, and mirrored his motions to the T. This one _didn’t_ know what she was doing, but she was making a good effort to pose as if she did.

A sideways glance from him, and a slight smirk on his lips, told Valentina he’d noticed too.

“I’ll play your game,” she accepted after mimicking him pushing the bolt forward again and hoisting the rifle up against his shoulder. Valentina had stepped out of their path by then and stood with her hand hovering by the button that would bring her booth alive.

“But only,” she continued. “If you ride the turny-wheel with me after.”

“Ferris wheel,” he grunted.

“Whatever.”

They were funny, Valentina decided, and woke up her booth. The motor gave the familiar, mopey shudder, but a moment later dim lights around the wild-wild-west town came to life. Most brass targets snapped back and out of sight, and others started their wobbly trip across the scenery.

The girl cooed and tilted her head, her eyes snapping to her companion.

“You first,” he dared her, and she narrowed her eyes. Then she lowered herself slightly, propped her elbow up and pushed the rifle against her cheek. So maybe she wasn’t _all_ green, Valentina hoped. She’d rather like to see an even challenge.

“I’ll have you know this aint fair. I’m left handed.”

“Boo-hoo.”

The girl closed an eye, sighted a target, and squeezed the trigger.

“Fuck.”

Missed. Valentina began taking score.

Mister Redfield went next. There wasn’t much sighting, just a firm push against his shoulder, a quick glance, and _PING_. One of the bandits that had poked his head out from behind a window swung back to dangle from its lead.

He glanced at her. She glared back.

The girl rolled her shoulders, let her fingers play against the rifle stock, and adjusted her stance. While her cheek pressed against the rifle and she focused firmly down the sights, he took a gander at her straight spine and the curve of her lower back as she leaned onto the counter. Valentina kept her smile to herself.

“Eyes,” the girl warned out of the blue, not once looking his way. Mister Redfield complied, and watched her take her next shot instead. Another miss.

“What’s wrong, Shielding?” he teased, and Valentina could have sworn she growled at him in response.

He nailed the next one too, quick and without any fuss.

Miss Shielding muttered something under her breath in a language she didn’t know, and worked the scarf off her neck. She drew in a quick breath when it came off, and a subtle shudder ran the length of her.

“Hold that,” she snapped and pushed the scarf at him.

And down she went again, rear end up, back straight and rifle pressed tight against her shoulder. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and when they fluttered open they held only clear intent. Her pupils were wide, thick black pools that drank in the light from her amber iris, and her lips drew back in a grim smile. Miss Shielding held her breath, squeezed the trigger, and _PING_ went one of the rowing bandits flitting left and right.

“Ha!” she hooted and swayed her hips in a victory dance.

He sighed and followed up her shot by sending the rooster on-top a building spinning wildly. Extra points for that, Valentina counted, and as things so went he stayed ahead, never quite letting her catch up.

* * *

 **S** adja hugged the orange, fluffy dog-thing with its gigantic floppy ears to her side and stepped onto the wobbly cart. Redfield looked mighty annoyed where he sat, his stare accusing her of terrible things. Like insisting he’d join her on the turny-wheely-thing was punishable by death.

What a melodramatic crybaby.

It couldn’t be so bad, now could it? Not as bad as wrecking her at the shooting gallery, at any rate. The fledgling Keeper had never had a sharp eye for rifles or bows, and as Sinvik had so eloquently put it many a time, was barely able to hit the broadside of a barn on her best of days.

Today hadn’t been any different, _barr_ or not. Being a _Cad’his_ bloody sucked at times, since what the Hell was it good for anyway? All it ever did was get her into trouble or have her a merry headache. She’d tied the binding around her neck again after the crushing defeat, wanting very much for a little peace.

But Redfield had done well, hadn’t he? Especially today, and especially at the gallery.

As a reward for the flawless display (and flawless it had bloody been) he’d won that monstrosity of a dog-thing with its floppy ears and wide grin. She’d dubbed it _Neevanz_ since then. Though instead of passing _Neevanz_ to the victor, the lady at the booth had pushed it straight at her. There’d been a smirk on her pretty, round features. A bit of a cheeky one.

Must have been a customary thing, Sadja figured, some sort of tradition. Let the man win the battle and the lady reap the rewards. Not too far fetched, and by how Redfield’s shoulders had deflated, he’d have preferred to be left out of it.  

To add insult to injury, Sadja squeezing the stuffed toy between them once they’d taken their seats. It fit well, all snuggled up to Redfield’s individually grouchy shoulder, and bobbed its head wildly when the cart rocked and started its slow trek into the skies.

Redfield sighed and went for his smokes.  

Halfway up, and Sadja declared the sight worth all the grumpy heat pushing up against her. She craned her neck, stared out across the park spreading out below them, and the metal beasties standing in neat rows farther ahead. They glinted in the fading light of the late evening sun, reflected the red and pink of a colourful horizon. By her side, Redfield turned his left wrist up, looked at the time piece he always carried, and huffed at it. Itching to get out of here, was he?

_What a shame. I could have sworn you were enjoying yourself, Sir._

His eyes lifted to her and she pretended to resume her study of the area — along with the passengers of the carts around them. There weren’t many, most of the carts were empty, but there was one that caught her eye. A young couple, arms slung around each other, him placing a peck of a kiss on her cheek and… Sadja tilted her head. What was he doing with the phone-gadget?

_Oh. Oh!_

A barmy giggle rolled in her stomach and threatened to squeeze up her throat, but she tamed it on its way up and forced it into a slow smile. The smile alone seemed to put Redfield on edge, and even as Sadja dug into her pants pocket for the phone-gadget he’d forgotten had been his, his eyes narrowed dangerously.

“No,” he cautioned her with a growl.

Though really now, had the fledgling Keeper ever truly been cautious?

* * *

“ **G** od damn fucking _BITCH_!”

Marco Rose’s head jerked up. The locker room had fallen silent, and every set of eyes had snapped to Lieutenant Nivans. He stood with a towel slung over his bare shoulders and his combat slacks loosely fastened around his waist. In his left hand he held his phone, and the right clenched into a fist, which he drove right into the locker next to him.

“I will _end_ her,” he snarled.

Despite himself, Marco joined his Lieutenant and looked over the young man’s shoulder. Staring up from the screen were two faces, and one of them was all too familiar to Marco.

He’d never met Chris Redfield in person.  

Hadn’t had the chance to yet, since he’d joined the Unit after the disaster in Edonia last Christmas. Back then it had been reduced to a single and particularly driven man, who’d quickly set his mind to rebuilding what had been lost.

But everyone knew the seasoned Field Captain, one of the original five founding members of the B.S.A.A. And they all knew he’d gone missing.

“Look at this shit,” Nivans shoved the phone at Marco, allowing him a better view.

Redfield didn’t look pleased on it, but he didn’t look necessarily distressed either. Pissed, Marco would say. Annoyed. And hanging onto him, with an arm around his neck and a hand firmly curled into his shirt so he couldn’t shake it off, was a young woman. She carried her auburn hair pulled taut against her skull, and a sand coloured shemagh lay slung around her neck.

Marco squinted. A lopsided smirk turned her lips up and she’d snapped the picture mid-wink.

They were high up, with a backdrop of a sunset cresting tall mountains.

“Does that look like a ferris wheel to you, Marco?!” Nivans squeezed through gritted teeth.

“Uh… maybe, Sir?”

“A _fucking ferris wheel_!”

Nivans pulled the phone back, snatched his shirt and jacket from the locker, and marched towards the exit, not bothering to put his clothes on. Halfway out the phone buzzed again. And then again and again. His Lt shoved the door open, snapped the phone up, and let out a frustrated roar.

* * *

“ **P** lace is closed. We should bug out,” Redfield reminded her while she sent off yet another picture to Nivans, wherever he might be.

This one she’d snapped of _Neevanz_ , the stuffed dog, with a white hat perched between his floppy ears. She’d won the hat in a game of popping balloons with darts. Since darts, that was something the fledgling Keeper did well. Now the hat sat on her head instead of _Neevanz’s_ , wide brim and all. It made her feel a wee bit silly, but she’d won it, so she’d not leave it behind. That’d be a waste.

“Don’t be a bore,” Sadja protested, hit _SEND_ on the picture, and tugged the phone away.

“They’ll throw us out. Might call cops too,” he warned and, just to make sure, turned his head about to see if anyone was already onto them.

“Only if they find us.” _Cops_ , she’d learned, that was police, whatever passed for authorities here. And she figured they shouldn’t be garnering for their attention, but hey, whoever said the fledling Keeper thought ahead much?

_No one did, that was who._

“Come on, Redfield. Live a little.”

She lifted a bottle of beer from the plastic bag he carried next to her and handed it to him. “Or suck on that, if it shuts you up.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, but accepted the bottle with the whisper of a smile.

_There, there. That’s the spirit._

Sadja liked the place even better now that it was empty and quiet. Silent buildings surrounded them, dipped in the early dark of the night, with barely enough light to navigate the shadows. It reminded her of the times she’d walked derelict Arec cities, still standing proud, but abandoned hundreds of years ago. Abandoned, and full of treasures.

This place likely didn’t have any treasures, but it was better than yet another hotel room. She stopped at a place that they’d passed a few times while it had still been a-buzz with noise. It looked a bit like a castle, except entirely fake. Two fake towers, a very fake battlement, and a big-ass purple unicorn prancing on its roof.

Fake too.

“Hold that,” she said and pushed _Neevanz_ at Redfield. He snatched the toy by the scruff of its neck and looked at her with what was undoubtedly growing concern. The concern turned into alarm when she hunkered down by the lock, pulled her pins from where she’d kept them tugged into her belt (for situations just like these), and picked the thing.

Weak moonlight crept through the windows into the hall, but with a little bit of careful shuffling and a few close encounters with a table there and a chair here, they made it to a staircase. And then up that staircase, and around a bend, and - Sadja wasn’t really paying much attention where she was going. The simple act of ghosting through the place, with that barmy giggle once again trapped in her belly, was allure enough. And Redfield wasn’t far behind, and that was an added bonus on its own.

Since mischief, as far as Sadja was concerned, was best shared.

They broke into the open soon enough, out of one of the fake towers, and onto the fake battlements below the big-ass purple unicorn. A flawless, starry night greeted them. Not a hint of _Hell_ grinning down at her, taunting her. Just a whole lot of stars and a simple, fat moon.

Sadja sat down, folded her legs underneath her, and propped _Neevanz_ against the fake battlements so she could lean into the fluffy thing. Redfield hesitated. But with a lack of options to go around, he decided to lean against the fake parapets across of her. Then he snapped the cap off his very real beer with the flick of his also very real lighter, and offered it to her. Mild surprise kicked the giggle in her belly into overdrive, and Sadja struggled to keep a lid on it. She took the bottle, inclined her head in thanks, and tilted her neck back to stare at the stars.

They were so bloody different.

Nothing up there looked right. Back home she’d navigate by looking up, by how _Hell_ sat in the skies, or by how the constellations tilted. Here it was all just a jumble of bright dots against the velvet backdrop, with no meaning to any of it.

 _And you bloody like it,_ Sadja admitted.

She’d started drawing lines between the glinting stars, when a loud, pitched hiss cut the silence above them. It droned on into a whiny rumble and shot by through the black skies.

Back home, the only thing up there were birds. And Reapers, though those you really didn’t want to see. Here they had _plane_ -things and they were common, but she’d never before heard one just that loud.

Another followed, and then another.

“Fighter jets,” Redfield muttered.

“Huh?” Sadja’s chin dropped back down and she regarded the man leaning across of her. “What’s a fighter jet?”

“Very fast and very expensive airplanes. I used to fly them.”

_You did what now?_

Sadja sniffed. He’d flown the skies? Her head tilted as she imagined him up there, doing what Elaya knew people did when they’d left the solid ground behind. She envied him. Quite a bit, too.

And while she pondered the nature of flying men, Redfield seemed to have found a memory that sat right with him. When he turned his eyes up to the skies she _felt_ him smile, felt an old, tattered and worn sensation lean itself against her. Heavy with years of strife. Heavy with life.

“Did you like it?”

He nodded. “Loved it.”

“So, why aren’t you any more?” Sadja prodded.

She’d not met him up in the skies, but down on the ground, boots in the dirt. Something must have happened.  

“Dishonourable discharge,” he murmured, and Sadja turned the words in her head.

“You were kicked out?”

He nodded.

“Why?” _’Like pulling teeth. Come on, man.’_

A shrug, just about lazy enough to tell her he didn’t really mind. “Disobeyed one order too many. Last one had me wreck a plane. A 160 million dollar mistake.”

“Huh,” Sadja leaned into _Neevanz_ again. “And there I was, peggin’ you for a good soldier.”

He grunted in reply and took a sip from his beer, his eyes tracking some invisible trail left by the jet-thing. Sadja nibbled on her own bottle, teeth clicking against the glass, and with every passing beat of her heart, his lips seemed to work themselves up into something very much resembling a smile. Or at least a shadow of it, one that went well with the sensation lapping up against her gates.  

She liked it.

Liked how it crinkled the corners of his eyes. How it banished the frown and welcomed peace onto his stern features.

_Saddle up. We’re going all in._

“I’ve got to ask, Redfield,” Sadja started while she lifted her right leg from under her and spread it out. Her knee popped pleasantly.

“Hm?” He didn’t look at her, but kept his wistful glance focused on the memory he’d painted into the sky.

“You’ve got family?”

The smile froze on his lips, ready to crumble. His muddy blue eyes skipped from the heavens to her. They left a smouldering scorch-mark on her soul and then quickly cut back up.

_Ouch. Didn’t answer my question though._

“Any little Redfields?”

He exhaled sharply, a misplaced laugh that hitched in his throat.

A no, she figured, yet another soldier pinned down by the fates to serve things larger than his own beating heart. That wasn’t a thing easily challenged, Sadja knew. She’d tried. She’d failed. Her hand dropped to her stomach, fingers curling into a loose fist. She had to force it back up to wrap around the bottle instead and whip the unpleasant thoughts back into whatever dark corner of her mind the beast called home.

“I’ve got a sister,” she offered, still tearing her thoughts away from Ceat and the gaping void sitting beneath her heart. “An evil twin, if you’d like.”

Redfield looked at her, an eyebrow arched with curiosity.

“You two don’t get along?”

“Mh,” Sadja lied and tapped the mouth of her bottle against her forehead. Sinvik wasn’t her sister. Not by blood. The Keeper had claimed her. Made her a Shielding out of necessity, since the other way lay death. Though she’d always figured if one of them was made of things wicket, it was Vik.

“You could say that.”

The curiosity fled to make way for surprise, but she disarmed the obvious question with a quick smile.

“Long story. Boring one, too.”

The look he levelled at her told her he didn’t believe the lie one bit. But he let it slide. Silence, sneaky as it was, came plodding back into the picture and stretched itself lazily between them.

“Claire,” he murmured eventually. “Kid sister.”

Sadja remembered the name, from when she’d gotten his phone-gadget working.

“Does she know you’re okay?”

“We… we don’t talk,” his brow furrowed and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I think.”

Whatever hope at old and forgotten smiles he might have had, Sadja realised she’d ruined it. And since it was her fault, she pushed herself up and slid across the fake ramparts to sit by his knees. As if her proximity might help. _‘Ha…’_

She turned her chin up. He’d gone back to the bottle, grasping for peace with another long gulp. Not because of his sister. No. Because of the chunk of his life that had gone missing, the tangle in his skull that kept his thoughts from straightening out.

He sighed.

The noise tugged at her heart, unbidden and rude. It was just a sigh, Elaya be bloody damned. Wasn’t like he didn’t already spit those out aplenty.

Then he glanced down at her, his weary muddy blue eyes not showing much of anything. No scorn, no affection, though as she held the stare, Sadja thought she caught a plea in them. Distant and shy, too proud to come forward. A man thing, probably.

Her stomach sank a little lower. Just a sigh? No, this one had been different. He’d been trying, for once. Tried to cut through the fog in earnest, only to find it unyielding.

She quirked an eyebrow at him, and he allowed his knees to fold so he could lower himself to the ground next to her.

“To wayward siblings,” Sadja whispered.

“To wayward siblings,” he repeated and clicked his beer bottle against hers with a flick of his wrist.

* * *

“ **I** t’s pitch-black, visibility is shit with a storm whipping up the sea,” Chris retold, with her staring at him attentively. She had her chin resting on the neck of her empty bottle, which sat propped up against her knee. “So when the Captain spots a dot of light dead ahead, on a collision course with his ship, he goes for the radio and sends across loud and clear:

_“This is the USS Iowa. Unidentified vessel, change your course, ten degrees East.”_

The light signals back: _“Negative. Change yours, ten degrees West."_

The insolence, he thinks, and shouts: _“I’m a Navy Admiral! Change your course, this is an order!”_

 _“I'm a seaman, second class,"_ comes the reply. _“Change your course, Sir."_

The Captain is downright furious now, frothing at the mouth, and definitely getting worried too, since the light keeps approaching.

 _“I’m a battleship! I'm not changing course!”_ he barks.”

Chris looked at her, waiting for her to jump in and complete the age-old joke. But instead she tilted an eyebrow at him.

“And what then? Don’t leave me hanging, Redfield.”

_Seriously?_

“ _I’m a lighthouse. Your call._ ”

Sadja blinked at him, only to break into a quiet laugh a heartbeat later. Quiet as it might be, it sounded genuine enough, and Chris liked it. But as was the norm with her, the laugh was as fleeting as anything she had to offer, and soon gave way to a scolding glance.

“That never happened, did it?”

“No idea,” he said and shrugged. “Though I do know what’s going to happen now.”

“What’s that?”

“We’re going to leave. I’m freezing my balls off.”

That earned him another quick smile.

“Mh.” Sadja agreed, flipped that stupid looking white hat onto her head, grabbed a hold of his shoulder, and pulled herself up.

He almost changed his mind right then, felt his hand itch to grab her arm and sit her right back down. Preferably on his lap, instead of the cold ground. Have her straddle him, knees locked against his legs, and her warm, small form pressed against him.

Chris pinched the bridge of his nose.

_Fuck._

The craving dissipated in guilty chaos. He didn’t need that shit. Not now. Not ever, really. He’d gone and done enough damage already. Even if it didn’t seem like she’d necessarily minded— _Cut the crap, Redfield._

He ground his teeth together and looked up, where he found himself faced with a curious set of honey coloured eyes blinking down at him. Her brow pinched. Furrowed. Pity? Seriously? Was that _pity_?  

 _What the hell._ For the second time around he dearly hoped she couldn’t read minds. Else he might as well just go throw himself off the fucking castle walls.

A faint shake of her head, and a sad little smile later, she snatched up her ugly stuffed dog and made for the stairs, leaving him sitting by himself with his dignity barely holding together.

“Okay, Chris,” he told himself. “Just, get up. Walk down there. Pretend she’s…” He tried to fish for a memory that annoyed him. Loud music, off-beat drumming against the dash, stupid questions, peach and pineapple green smoothies?

_Nope._

He came up empty handed. None of them seemed all that terrible from where he was sitting right now.

“… tried to kill you? Yeah. That’ll do.” Though last time she’d done that he’d cuffed her to a bed afterwards.

Footsteps padded back his way. Quick ones. Quiet ones. He looked up. “Shit,” Sadja hissed under her breath as she hurried across the walkway. “Shit. Shit. SHIT.”

Chris frowned. Something wasn’t right. He got to his feet, and she pushed a hand against his shoulder, turning him towards the other exit, then hurried him on with a shove against his back.

His hackles rose even before a man’s gravely voice bounded through the open stairwell behind them.

“Where are you going, Keeper?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Bonding! Double Yay! Action coming up! Tripple Yay! Shirtless Nivans! And of course who can say no to getting their rear handed to them at shooting it out at an amusement park with Redfield?


	17. Tit for Tat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo--- action!

**TIT FOR TAT**

* * *

  **S** adja’s hand curled into his shirt and held tight.

 _Make up your mind,’_ Chris thought. She’d pulled him to a stop, no longer shoving them both towards the open doorway leading into a whole lot of pitch black staircase. The sort you broke your neck in if you didn’t watch your step.

And then his ears picked it up too; _CLICK-THUMP-CLICK_ _CLICK-THUMP-CLICK_ , a rhythmic approach of something heavy scaling the stairs. It huffed and it growled, a guttural sound meant to discourage any thought of approach, and it fucking worked. Chris _felt_ the sound, how it set his teeth on edge and shrivelled his balls right up. How it told him, all matter of fact, he had no business being here, and if he valued his life he better run.

So, following the trend of never listening to himself, Chris held his ground. Where would he go anyway? And how bad could it really be?

 _Probably a dog,_ he thought. _A big dog._

Gloved hands fell together in a muted clap. “You are quite a demanding quarry, Keeper.” Another clap. And then another. “Slippery as they come,” the man peeling from the gaping darkness of the second exit said and continued to reinforce his claim with the sound of a mocking applause.

Sadja released his shirt, and Chris turned himself with his back to the open air, not at all thrilled with having either of the doors behind him. Not the one with the clapping man, for one, who approached them both slowly, and definitely not the other, with the growling, padding, huffing _thing_ still tucked away in the dark. He might have seen a muzzle though. A gray one. Maybe. Muzzle. Dog. It made sense. Dogs made sense.

Sadja let out an irritated sigh, and Chris caught her hand darting to an empty spot at her hip. Her fingers curled around air. He recognised the motion, the grab for a weapon.

Really now, how bad could it be?

Chris tried to forget about the dog and looked towards the man. Tall. Lean. Slim shoulders. He had short cropped brown hair, and a long, angular face. Thick cloth wrapped around his torso, patterned with colours warring for attention as they looped around him. Dark blue, strong pink, plashes of green and light grey— a little bit ridiculous, really. The whole vest had a strange cut altogether, if it had any cut at all and hadn’t just been made of strips tied around him. It left his right shoulder bared, on which he brandished a bright violet tattoo spiralling down his arm to his elbow, and Chris realised the colour matched his eyes.

They were an unsettling light purple that skipped right past him and settled on Sadja.

 _Contacts,_ he thought. Had to be. And while the colour of his eyes unnerved Chris, the weapons did their part on testing whatever nerves he had left.

He carried a sword.

A silver pommel drank in the moonlight, reflected it with a glint as he moved, and the whole thing looked entirely too long in its black scabbard against the clapping man’s impeccable white trousers.

The hilarity of it almost made Chris disregard him, file him away as a tourist attraction doing overtime. Maybe Sadja had planned for this. Maybe now he’d find out she’d set this whole thing up as one incredibly aggravating prank.

They’d laugh. Shake hands. Part ways. Never fucking talk again. Maybe he’d find himself on some reality TV show after that, the sort he probably wouldn’t ever watch, and that’d be that.

Except the clapping man also carried a holster nestled against his ribcage below his left shoulder, and tucked inside sat a long-barrelled revolver. The strap on its grip was lose. Ready to draw.

 _This has to be a joke,_ Chris told himself.

“Vivik and McMauldin will be besides themselves when I bring you in. They’re scurrying about aimlessly, looking in all the wrong places.” He rested one white gloved hand onto the silver pommel of his sword.

Once again, Chris couldn’t place the thick accent. It was a weak mockery to the melodic rhythm he’d grown used to from his burden.

“And if I may say so, with all modesty of a good tracker, they’ve been going about this with all the wrong means.” He glanced left, gave a quick whistle.

There was that growl again, along with a throaty hiss. Two, this time, one from each door.

Sadja drew in a sharp breath and Chris’ heart sank.

_Not a prank._

Two _things_ came plodding into view, one from each staircase. They stood almost as tall as Sadja. And that was where Chris’ brain stopped being able to make sense of them. They weren’t predator cats. Not great hounds either. Lizards? No.

_Chinese fucking dragons?_

His mind threw out all reason and wailed trying to sort the things into a drawer. They didn’t belong anywhere.

Leathery, pale skin. Thick, but lean muscle. Runners. Hunters. Patches of feathers in purple, gold and silver created uneven patterns on the otherwise sleek complexion. They collected against their narrow narrowly framed fronts, and up along the pointed shoulder blades joining together in heavily feathered, v-shaped torsos. Cresting their backs sat gnarly spines, lined with even more feathers, until they ended in long, flat tails that whipped at the air as the _things_ drew closer.

One of them plodded towards the tattooed man. It stopped by his side. The other kept walking, pulling back pale lips to bare a purple fanged snarl. A rasping growl spilled from its maw. The sound bubbled from its chest, its throat quivering.

_What the FUCK…_

Chris stepped towards Sadja, crowded her against the parapets. Man and _thing_ to his right. _Thing_ on the left. Steep drop behind him. Another steep drop in front of him.

_Ah, shit._

The motion drew attention, with both things snapping their heads about to fix him in unblinking stares. Bright, golden specked eyes reflected the sparse moonlight, the same that had sat so damn well with him for the last two hours. Back when it had been quiet. Back when it had just been him and the burden. Back when he didn’t have to stare at spheres of gold for eyes, set in wide sockets rimmed with delicate patterns in wild colours. And no pupils, Chris noticed, and that bothered him more than the vicious looking claws that clicked against the ground as they set into a slow prowl towards them.

“Ha! Who would have thought? You found yourself a pet. And what a strapping one it is,” the tall man almost _cooed_ and removed his gloved hand from his sword to rest it against the second _thing’s_ spine. It stopped.

“Pray tell, does he obey? Does he roar and growl, or does he yap and whinge at your heel?”

 _Excuse me?_ Chris clenched his jaw.

The unsettling pale purple eyes stared plainly at him now, as if he was drawing a measuring tape from the soles of his feet to the top of his head.

“But more importantly, does he fight as well as one of mine? Can he best a Reaper?” A bright, wide smile spread on his lips. “Why don’t we find out?”

And without further warning the _thing_ to their left leapt forward.

Before his mind could snap him into action, Sadja slipped past, wielding the ugly dog in one hand. When the _thing_ sprang at them, she met it halfway. Its purple toothed jaw opened to take a chunk out of her arm, but only got a mouthful of orange fluff. “Fetch,” she squeezed through gritted teeth, and knocked her shoulder into the _thing’s_ flank as it came tearing past her. A quarterback-worthy shouldertlackle that carried it right over the parapets and sent it toppling off the walkway.

Then she yelped for him to “ _Run_!”

His burden bolted for the now empty staircase without a look over her shoulder. Like she didn’t care whether or not he took her advise to abandon his pride.

Chris dashed after her.

She tripped down the first few steps, lost her white hat as she tried to regain her balance, with her hands grasping at the walls and snatching at the air. He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. At being chased by a man with a sword and revolver, and gigantic cat-hound-dragon _things_. And at Sadja cursing as she kept setting her feet down wrong, and only finding her balance once she hit the ground running at the bottom of the stairs. He wanted to laugh because he could barely see a thing, because she piled into a table and he had to snatch her by the arm, yank her up and haul her through the dark.

“That way,” Sadja puffed out between quick breaths, pulled one way, while he was about to pull the other. Something threw itself against the door they’d come through a few hours ago. It flung open, cracked into the wall. The cat-hound-dragon _thing_.

“Keeper!” howled the man.

Now _he_ was laughing. A genuine, mirthful guffaw, and Chris wanted to join him. Instead he followed Sadja’s pull, a hand clasped around her elbow, and counted all the terrible decisions he’d made to get here.

* * *

《《 **S** adja hunkered down in front of the _Sarehound_ , and placed the tip of her index finger against its flat, pale snout. Leathery, warm and firm. The Reaper’s golden eyes rolled unseeing in their sockets, black spots moving across like inverted stars on a strangely coloured sky.

“We’re supposed to play a game,” she murmured.

It couldn’t hear her, of course. It was deaf. Deaf _and_ blind. But it did flare its nostrils at her, inhaling her scent. That, and everything else about her; Her texture, colour. Her taste. _Her,_ or who she was within the Verge at least. It’d drink it all in, and recognise her until the end of its days. Which, she’d been told, could be quite an eternity from now.

It snorted. The long neck gave a lazy shudder and its lips peeled back to give her a good look at the long, purple teeth lining it jaw.

“It doesn’t look harmless,” Sadja said and rose to her feet, backing away from it. A pair of brown leather gloves with heavy hands tucked inside landed on her shoulders. They stopped her retreat.

She leaned back into Sai, and craned her neck to look at him. He’d thrown up the wide cowl of his waxed, pine green overcoat, and crowded his face in shadows.

“ _Relatively_ harmless,” he repeated himself. “They are dumb creatures, Fledgilng. Even a child can outsmart them.”

“I am _not_ a child.”

Off to the side, she heard Sinvik puff out a quick laugh. Her eyes darted that way and caught a sly wink from the Keeper sitting cross legged on a large tree stump by the clearings edge. A slice of dried meat dangled from her mouth.

“Perspective,” Sai added, the glow of his silver eyes darting towards the sound of his master’s amused chuckle.

Sadja sucked in her bottom lip, chewed on it, and gave an offended sniff. The _Sarehound_ swished its flat tail, colourful feathers ruffling as it did. It might have been a playful gesture, she did not know. All she knew was that the thing made her spine tickle with anxiety, and it made her want to bolt into the other direction.

 _Sarehounds_ were trouble. _Sarehounds_ meant Ward. You saw one, you knew the Ward was onto you, or at least had itself a good guess. It’d sniff you out, like it sniffed at the cribs of newborn babes before their markings were clear, or at folks that hid them well.

Sadja knew why she feared them. Why she hated them even. But Sai? Whenever he saw one he looked at it with pity and disgust. Or some emotion much like it. You had to be creative about it, how you read the flutter of his features, and the flicker of his eyes.

“Why do you hate them so much?” She asked.

Sai’s head tilted to one side. The glow of his eyes dimmed.

“I do not hate.”

“Liar,” Sinvik called from the sidelines.

His chest rumbled with a muted growl. “They are an _affront_ to the Reapers. Untethered. No direction. Forgotten purpose, forgotten meaning.”

“So,” Sadja drew her brows together. A meek giggle itched at the base of her throat. “You hate ‘em because they’re like you?”

Sai’s fingers curled into her shoulders, but he kept his eyes steadily on the _Sarehound_.

“I deviated.” 》》

Sadja tore the _barr_ from her neck with her free hand. Trying to get her elbow back from Redfield was pointless, he’d snatched it so tight all she could do was steer him with it.

_Much good that does you._

She had no idea where to go.

 _There’s_ always _a way out back,_ Sinvik’s voice whispered through memories long past, and he was right, too. She’d spotted a double winged door in the dim moonlight on her first stumble through the dark. At that time she’d not been chased by two daft Reapers and their insufferable handler, so it hadn’t seemed very important.

And insufferable he was, Ansel vil Varc, or Ansel the Purple, if you will. A puffed up, self-important piece of Sare- _shit_ that had thrown himself in with the Ward first, and with the Nightingale second. He’d made a name of himself as a tracker, and of how he always brought home his prey. Dead. Mostly.

She might have stood her ground at first. Fought. She had hands, after all. And a good pair of legs. And teeth, if push came to bite. Might have lived too, slim as that chance was. But Redfield? Not so much. If the Reapers wouldn’t have picked him apart limb from limb, Ansel would have shot him dead or taken the blade to him. Even if she’d have dropped to her knees then and there and let him take her, Ansel the Purple didn’t leave behind lose ends.

The _barr_ clutched in one hand, Sadja led them through the dark. Her gates were flung wide open, and she quested about the place, mapping it around her. No more falling over tables and catching her shin on a chair if she could bloody help it. Letting herself roam so freely brought searing pain at her elbow though, and let the flames burn her up, but she’d take Redfield setting the world around her ablaze over getting her ass chewed off by a Reaper any day.

_Up ahead. Door._

It’d need some convincing though, but that was what the battering ram was for. The burning battering ram.

“Put your shoulder in it, Redfield!”

“What? Right.”

He let go of her elbow, and they picked up speed with the Reaper scattering chairs and tables behind them. Where Sadja’s shoulder bounced off harmlessly, Redfield… well, he didn’t quite take it off its hinges, but he did break the lock holding the two wings together. Then he grabbed her by the elbow again ( _’What the Hell, man?’_ ) and she was back to steering.

Still not outside, still cooped up. A fake stone tunnel, lined with paintings of knights and horses and damsels and castles. A red carpet at their feet, muffling their footfalls as they fled. And another door right ahead, or a gate, really. All fake sturdy looking, Sadja guessed. But it was propped open, and you didn’t question fate if it pretended at kindness.

But then what?

 _Sarehounds_ were daft creatures, alright. A laughing stock, really, and no real threat on their own if you had your wits about you and your trousers weren’t ‘round your ankles. But being armed, that helped too, even with her trousers where they ought to be. Worse still, there was no outrunning them. Back home, the trackers were only ever good up close, where they could sniff you out from a crowd. Over distances they lost their advantage, with Elaya's hem full of vivid souls that threw them off your scent. Though here, in this void, a _Cad’his_ must leave one deliciously juicy trail for miles upon miles.

No wonder Ansel took his time. She could almost _see_ him strolling along with a triumphant swagger, one hand on his second hounds shoulders, a shit eating grin on his face, and congratulating himself with every infuriating step. His two beasties wouldn’t let up. So she’d have to do something about them, with Redfield still firmly attached to her elbow.

_Correction, We._

Now all she had to do was figure out that _Something_.

_No pressure._

* * *

 _**R** eaper_, the violet eyed man had called the thing before it had thrown itself at them.

 _Reaper_ , as far as Chris was concerned, was not a good name for anything, especially not when it was right at your back, its lungs sucking in strong pulls of air.

He tried not to think about it, tried to file it away for later, and set his mind to keeping pace with Sadja. It was the revolver that bothered him more, because that he could quantify. When that thing went off, he’d know what’d come next, and his back prickled with the anticipation of an impact waiting to happen.

They reached the gate at the end of the tunnel and slipped through. No breath wasted on words, both of them turned and pushed it closed, their backs up against the wood and their feet dug into the ground.

The gate shuddered a second later when the first Reaper threw itself into it. Chris had to dig in his heels to keep the door from flinging open, but each time the cat-hound-dragon _thing_ pushed, he lost more ground, his boots sliding into the fine grained sawdust at his feet.

_Sawdust?_

“Is that…” Sadja squeezed from between two quick breaths. “… a _tourney_ ground?”

And it was, which explained the distinct stink of horses and all the dirt on his boots. Moonlight lit the place up enough, gave him a good view of the high and wide hall that spread out ahead of them. Aisles lined the walls, pointing straight at a square arena in the centre. A second gate stood at the other end, way across, and very closed.

“Shit,” she muttered. “Shit. SHIT,” she repeated.

The gate shuddered again.

Chris picked at his brain, and next to him, Sadja did the same. She also moved away from the gate, left him to deal with the cat-hound-dragon _thing_ knocking. It snarled too, and let out a howl that curdled his stomach.

And she didn’t care. Not about the _what_ , at least. She paced, eyes searching, lips in a thin line. Her right wrist rotated, fingers clenched to fists, then fell open again.

Her nervous tick, her _thinking_ tick. That motion she went through when she wasn’t keeping her hands busy and had things to deal with in her head.

_What the hell, Shielding…_

She’d not hesitated on the battlements, hadn’t cared _what_ she’d tackled off the roof. She’d recognised the man too, hadn’t she?

_What IS this shit?_

As if on cue: “Keeper!” He sounded muffled through the thick wood, miles away. And when the cat-hound-dragon _thing_ stopped throwing itself forward, Chris played with the thought of having fallen asleep. His imagination had never been known to make leaps and bounds, but there was a first time for everything…

“How can you _stand_ it here, in this deprecate world?”

Sadja’s eyes cut to the gate.

“Get stuffed, Ansel…” she whispered.

“Why would you pick a place so hollow to hide in? So meaningless.”

She worked the shawl from her forearm, looped it around itself and tied it to her belt.

“It’s filled with sheep. Harmless children! And they play at being wolves amongst each other, have you seen? No greatness, with only their toys to set them apart. Don’t tell me the Keeper doesn’t grow bored.”

Her eyes snapped away from the gate, scanned left and right. They narrowed. Medieval weapons lined the walls, all of them useless props.

“Is _everything_ here fake?” she hissed and stalked along the wall to a wheelbarrow left behind by staff. It had tools piled into it. Gardening tools. Stable tools.

“Or are the rumours true?” _Ansel_ taunted. “Is this little Keeper dying, and slinking away like a fading dog?”

Sadja’s jaw clenched.

 _Dying?’_ Chris frowned.

She paused, one hand resting against the wooden shaft of a pitchfork crowning the pile of tools.

Off her rocker, batshit insane? Yes. _Dying?_ The strange girl curled her lips in a brief, almost feral smile, and hefted the pitchfork free.

“Find out,” she barked. “Take a good long _look_ , Ansel. And tell me if you like what you see.” Her voice was steady, melodic. It betrayed no fear, nor the agitation that he saw in her tense shoulders and quickly darting eyes. “Has your master forgotten to mention the Wasting eating away at me? Are you ready to catch more than just a Keeper for her? Might be you want to turn around and leave me be. If you’re lucky you’ll live.”

Ansel fell silent. Sadja took that time to weigh the pitchfork in her hands like a prized weapon, moved it from one to the other, and then gave a quick shrug. That’ll-do, it said.

“You take me for an idiot, Keeper?” He sounded offended in his reply. “You are lying.”

That startled her. She frowned, looked at _him_ of all things, and rolled her eyes.

* * *

 **T** here it was again. That barmy giggle, with the beast howling along in the pit of her stomach, or the shadows of her heart, wherever that bloody thing made its home these days.

Sadja took a deep breath, gripped the pitchfork tight, and stood in front of the gate.

“Try to stay out of my way,” she told Redfield. “And don’t get yourself killed. It ‘d be a damn shame.”

Flames flared, eyes narrowed and she figured she’d just offended the man. Fatally so.

Sadja set that aside, told herself she’d apologise later, and spread herself thin. With one long, shuddering breath, she let herself fall away and flood Elaya’s hem with pieces of herself. She’d not be able to stretch very far, and it wouldn’t last, but it’d be a good enough game of _”Find the Sare”_.

If only to buy her a little time.

* * *

 **H** er eyes fell away from him, and settled on the gate at his back. She dipped the pitchfork low, drew a curved line in the sawdust in front of her. Left leg forward, right leg back. Her shoulders rolled, and her right wrist rotated again, fingers flexing, before the hand wrapped tight around the wooden shaft.

Chris wanted to think her insane, but a rush against the gate knocked both him and his thoughts wide.

The force of the impact threw him off his feet. He caught the fall on his shoulder, rolled with it, and got a knee under him just in time to see the Reapers leap from the open gate.

Ansel followed them, without hurry in his step, his right arm extended. Like he’d just pushed the fucking gate open by himself. The hand dropped, and a cruel smile lifted his lips.

_So, that’s it then, Redfield._

The first Reaper bounded at Sadja. The second one… it froze, flared its nostrils and yapped at the arena. A confused swish of its tail and a shake of its head later it started plodding aimlessly forward, its head lowered between its shoulder blades.

Its friend reached Sadja.

The girl tightened her stance, wove out of the way with a hair-width between her and the creature, which kept on running, bounding past her as if she wasn’t even there.

Sadja ignored it in turn, hoisted the pitchfork up, tucked in her shoulders, and rushed at cluelessly plodding Reaper number two.

Ansel’s eyes widened. His hand darted to the revolver.

_Stay out of the way my ass._

Chris regretted the moment he decided to push himself from the ground and charge the armed man. The revolver came up. A one handed draw, a slow lift of the arm, extended straight. Leisurely almost, more style than skill. But you didn’t need skill up so close, not with your target coming at you head on. She’d be dead the moment he fired. His other hand stayed wrapped around he hilt of the sword. The trigger finger twitched.

Chris held his breath. He’d been too late.

* * *

 **T** he _Sarehound_ barrelled past her, and Sadja ran right for the other. Ansel went for his Ranger, that gangly thing, and Redfield went for _him_.

_You stupid OAF!_

Sadja snapped herself back in place. Elaya’s hem tugged to her left. The Ranger discharged. She slipped aside, the bullet tearing past harmlessly, and both Reapers whipped around as their quarry focused. The one behind her howled, and the one in front of her faced her, its body coiling for a leap. Sadja squeezed the pitchfork tight between her arm and torso and met it halfway.

* * *

 **C** hris grabbed at the extended arm and Ansel’s shoulder, ready to drive the man into the dirt. Another shot cracked at the air, rung his ears, and sounding _wrong_. Not loud enough, too hollow.

The man grunted in surprise, as if he’d not even considered Chris since he’d marched through the door, like he was nothing more than a bystander who should have listened and stayed out of the way.

He had strong footing, that one, and before Chris could get his shoulder under him to throw him to the ground, Ansel regained his balance and latched himself onto him. An almost clumsy, staggering grapple moved them one step forward, then one step back, and Chris thought they might as well be having a drunken slow dance in a fucking barn.

If he let go to get better footing, he’d risk Ansel going for his revolver again. If he even dropped one hand, he might get the sword into play.

If— Chris risked a glance at Sadja, thinking it really didn’t matter if she was dead. What was he supposed to do against all three?

But she wasn’t on the ground, dead. No, she came and met the Reaper lunging for her with her pitchfork, drove all three spokes into its narrow chest. The Reaper howled. Snapped at the air.

“Keeper’s _pet_ ,” Ansel growled, tearing Chris’s thoughts back to his own problems. The man’s hand pushed against his chest. “ _Unhand_ me!” He demanded.

Soundless lightning struck Chris.

Or maybe a charging bull barrelled into his chest, sent him airborne for at least nine feet. The sawdust cushioned the landing, but his neck snapped back, jarred his teeth when his skull knocked into the ground.

Chris shook his head, wrestled the world back from its wild tilt, and stared at Ansel nine feet away. Nine. Fucking. Feet.

The man had started cursing. He’d doubled over, screaming bloody murder at the top of his lungs, with one hand pressed against his forehead and his feet stomping at the ground while he staggered in a circle. As if his boots had caught fire.

“How dare you, you insolent CUR!”, he screeched.

_Jesus fucking Christ…_

Whatever had the man losing his mind, it didn’t last. Ansel regained his composure. The revolver lifted. It had a wide muzzle. Very wide. Chris could tell, since it pointed right at him.

“I won’t be burnt by a simple mutt,” Ansel announced. His violet eyes flashed fury at him along the barrel of the gun.

_Lights out._

Sadja rushed in from the side before the revolver could fire, cracked the severed shaft of her pitchfork down onto the extended arm. Ansel cried out. The revolver dropped.

His other hand came up, intended to push her away, much like he’d just done with Chris.

At their feet, the dirt _shuddered_. A gentle earthquake quivered beneath them. It lifted the stardust from the ground, only for a breeze to come pick it up and scattered it in a while of dust towards the remaining Reaper charging in from behind Sadja.

The thing didn’t get far. It had its feet pulled from under it and got a jaw-full of sawdust as it hit the ground. Even the still twitching corpse of the first Reaper slid across the ground, jerked around by an invisible force.

Everything was pushed back. Except Sadja.

In front of her, and falling around her sides, flared dirty silver light, marred with an angry red. Like a mesh of hundreds of broken shards of glass catching the dim moonlight— and a trick of the light it must have been. Either that, or he’d hit his head harder than expected.

Sadja didn’t care. Of course she didn’t. The staff flipped in her hands and drove into Ansel. He avoided it, barely, and grabbed for his sword. It slid free from the scabbard, a faint whisper of metal against leather following the motion.

While he stepped away, tried to get distance between them, Sadja followed with her makeshift weapon swinging around to meet his head.

He recoiled, flicked the sword up against the wood. His arm went up with the block, and Sadja stepped in. She snatched his sword arm, grabbed the wrist tight, pivoted, and pushed into him. Her leg snuck around his. She doubled forward, arching her back, and pulled Ansel over her shoulder. He landed hard.

Sadja let go, skidded back, kicking up sawdust as she went, just in time for the Reaper to snatch at her with bared fangs. Her staff came about, cracked into its face.

It howled.

 _Do_ something _, Redfield!_

Like what?

They circled her, Ansel back on his feet, and the Reaper keeping out of reach. Its flat, feathered tail whipped the air.

_The gun._

He scanned the dirt, wishing for more light. They had torn into the neat presentation of flat sawdust prepared for tomorrow’s presentation, left footprints and deep furrows everywhere.

If only he had more light, where was that damn gun?

Ansel lunged forward, sword slipping past Sadja’s staff. Not slashing, but darting in and out. Fencing. She danced out of the way of the first two jabs, barely, with not an inch between the blade and her chest. Thrust number three nicked her side, and thrust number four glanced off the staff as she parried it.

 _There._ By the Reaper’s claws, half buried in dirt.

While Ansel kept Sadja dancing, and the Reaper charged for her side, Chris pushed himself to his feet.

Sadja leapt back and the Reaper stirred up dirt where she’d just stood. It whirled about, now between her and Ansel, and let out a growl so feral Chris almost froze as he grabbed for the revolver.

_Hurry._

It was heavier than he’d expected, with a long, unwieldy barrel. He snapped it up, sighted the Reaper, and pulled the trigger.

_CLICK._

Piece of shit didn’t fire. He groaned.

The Reaper plowed into Sadja, or would have, if she’d still been there. She wove past it, here then, gone now, and flew at Ansel. He met her with the blade. The sword caught on the staff, lodged itself into the wood just long enough. Sadja threw the staff up high and snatched Ansel’s wrist. She pushed. He drove his free elbow at the side of her head. She caught it on hers, wrapped her arm around it and locked him in place.

 _Come on…_ Chris knocked his palm into the revolver. Squeezed the trigger again. Nothing. _’Come the fuck ON!’_

Sadja stood her ground, locked into her own grapple with the man who sent things flying.

A defiant “ _Come fetch…_ ” bubbled from her chest, and as if it on cue, the Reaper turned about. It’s claws dug into the ground. It leapt.

“Watch out!” Chris knew his warning came too late. And the gun still wouldn’t fire.

* * *

 **T** here’d been options. There always were.

Moments of clarity, flitting by with each staccato beat of her heart, each quick intake of air. They’d give her choices, not right, not wrong. And with a snap, with the beat faded, the breath exhaled, the choice had to be made. She could have dropped to the ground, slid through the dirt, right past Ansel’s feet. The _Sarehound_? String it along with a beckoning call, one too tempting to resists, get it to knock into Ansel, take him off his feet maybe and maul him a little while it was at it? A good chance that would have worked. Might have. Could have. Maybe.  Or she could have disarmed the Sare, turned the blade on him and his Reaper. Might have worked too. Eventually.

_No more might. No more maybe._

Sadja felt the claws dig into her. They tore her to the ground, the full weight of the Reaper toppling both her and Ansel. Her right shoulder gave a sickening _pop_.

_Irrelevant._

Sadja wrapped herself into the vile light that was Ansel, let her soul entwine with his vivid presence. He fought back, arms straining, soul pushing, and greedily grasped for air while he tried to free his arms from her grip. She held on tighter, let the Reaper’s weight crush them both.

Confusion and distress leaked from him, soaked her in fluttery bitter things and airy sour things. A claw clipped her markings. White hot pain raced along her spine, drove into her skull and let the world rush by white and quick. Her heart skipped a beat, then two. And while she slipped through the cracks, Ansel tried to wrestle the _Cad’his_ aside, worm his way from her grip and into freedom.

The futile struggle woke the beast, had it howl with glee and jolt her heart to its next beat. From behind the bars of its cage, the beast mocked the _Sare_ for his efforts, cursed him a _Quirk_ for all the good it did him to battle her. He was buried under her, _in_ her. She’d flail his soul right here on the spot. And why shouldn’t she? He’d deserved it for coming after her, disturbing her _rest_.

Her thoughts must have been screaming in his head by the time the Reaper bit down, snapping its jaws closed around what it thought was Sadja’s neck.

Instead it caught Ansel. The Sare didn’t scream or protest, didn’t have a chance to as the Reaper tore out his throat. But she felt the surprise, the disbelief.

That moment, that thought, the last thing that would ever matter to him: _Why? I am not ready to die._

Sadja’s stomach turned. She wasn’t either. No one ever was.

 _Blown from an airlock. Run over by a horse. Tumbling down a mountain._ The world slipped out of focus.

 _Ha!_ She mused, thoughts muddy. _’Eaten alive by a Reaper then._

Her eyes closed. There wasn’t much to see anyway. Just dirt, an inch from her nose.

_Should have been a proper one. A winged one. A fierce one._

But this would do.

A loud crack tearing at the air snapped her from the fog. Another followed, and the weight on her back lifted as the Reaper fell to the side. _CRACK CRACK_ \- they just kept coming, as someone emptied Ansel’s Ranger into the Reaper, one bullet at a time.

Sadja stayed down, kept her nose firmly planted against the dirt, and waited until all chambers were empty and the shooter let up.

_Wouldn’t it be just great if you got capped in the head by a stray bullet now?_

It’d be marvellous, really.

She heard herself squeeze a pained noise from her throat as she tried to get up. Her right arm wouldn’t have any of it, so she used her left to push herself off the dead Ansel with his face in ruins.

There wasn’t much left of it. The Reaper had gone to town on him thoroughly while it had stood on her back, claws digging deep.

“What… what the _fuck_ was that!”

Redfield. Of course. She’d almost forgotten about him.

“Don’t worry. I’m fine,” Sadja muttered. She tried to straighten her back, but that just hurt like, well, like a Reaper had just had its way with it. So she folded forward, rested her left elbow on her knee and let her right arm dangle uselessly.

She caught sight of Redfield a little off the side. Pacing like a mad bear. A white knuckled grip held onto the Ranger, and he jabbed it towards the Reaper, then at Ansel. His other hand went through his hair, ready to tear it all out.

“How did he…!” His jaw clenched tight, barred the words from being said, since if he said them, they’d be real. Then he’d not be able to argue he’d just seen things, that he’d _not_ been tossed through the air by thought alone, that it all was just a mad dream.

No, if he said them out loud, then he’d have to make peace with them, and accept them for what they were. So he paced, up and down, left and right, while she felt warm blood pool in her shirt and trickle down her back.

 _Alive still, Sadja,_ she thought. A meek giggle sat at the base of her throat. _Bleeding to death, most like. But alive._

She waited, took that time to righten her gates again, until he finally stopped and stared at her. Anger. Fear. Anger. A bit of fury. Fear. They lapped against her, like waves rolling to shore, until a torrent of concern bullied its way through.

He came up to her, snatched her by the bad shoulder and set her back straight.

Sadja liked to think she could have come up with an eloquent complaint if she’d just tried, but settled for a whimper.

* * *

 **L** ater. Always _later_.

Once more Chris packed the questions away and closed the door on them. He tried not to look at the dead man with his colourful shirt, or the two still creatures sprawled in the dirt. Tried not to think of how he’d gone flying through the air. Or of that flicker of light… doing what? _Shielding_ her from what had knocked him right back? No, he tried not to think of any of it.

He focused on Sadja instead, and the blood that had convinced him he could be furious later and that the questions could wait.

There was a lot of it. The right half of her shirt was in tatters and soaked already. Dark red rivulets marked her pale skin, and joined to pool against the waistband of her jeans.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” he said, and she seemed to find that quite funny. A quiet, quick laugh, curbed short by a stiff intake of air when he peeled back a flap of torn clothing. They cut through the silence of the arena.

“Tit for tat, Redfield,” she chuckled. “How good are you with needles?”


	18. Sit.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the beast has itself whipped back into a corner, and Redfield contemplates wrapping his ride around a tree.

**SIT.**

* * *

  _ **W** hy are you listening to her, Redfield?_

He rushed her from the fake castle and into the cold moonlight.

_Here is what you do: Find an ER. Sit her down. And here is what you don’t do: Anything that’s not that._

Chris had hoped things would be easier once they were outside, where the walls stopped threatening to snap together and squash him where he stood.

Well. Bull.

Even without bizarre bodies on the floor, and no armed men with swords and revolvers, Chris couldn’t shake the chill from his neck, the one that squeezed tightly, as if something might come crawling after him any minute now.

Maybe the orange dog would get up, that ugly thing lying by the entrance, its sides torn open. White fluff covered the ground. Chris stepped over it. Tried not to think of—

_Reaper._

No. _Fuck._ Out here wasn’t much better.

He looked at Sadja, her feverish eyes, the thin line of her lips. Determined steps carried her alongside him, but she was walking with borrowed time ticking away fast. That _stupid_ girl had taken too long back in the arena. They should have been at the car by now. Should have been _gone_ by now. And he should have found an ER.

_And then you should have left. Get out, Redfield._

Instead he’d let her shrug his hand off her back. Her knees had hit the ground again and she’d frisked the violet eyed man with steady enough fingers that darted from pocket to pocket. She’d tossed a belt at him, a belt lined with bullets, and he’d stared at it dumbfounded. They were narrow, with a thin, pointed tip. Brass? He’d weighed them. Too light for brass.

“We need to get out of here,” he’d insisted, while she’d patted at the dirt with her left hand and found the hilt of the sword.

“Mh..”

_What was that?_

Then she’d picked up the damned thing, used it to prop herself back onto her feet. And there she’d stood for a while, eyes downcast, staring at the dead man, his neck an open wound, blood soaking the sawdust in a wide pool around him.

Regret? Remorse? _Something_ had sat in her honey coloured eyes that moment. Something lost again, he’d thought, something of consequence.

After a few more shallow breaths, she’d flicked her wrist in a testing whirl, had sent the blade cutting the air. Here, in that deathly quiet arena, the gentle swish had echoed from the walls louder than it should have. Only then she’d turned to him and he’d had to prop her up against his since since she’d started swaying.

By now she could barely walk.

Sadja faltered, slowed. Tick-Tock the clock went. Chris snatched her by the left elbow and pulled her forward. Her brow furrowed and she exhaled sharply.

“Don’t pass out on me now, Shielding.” He warned, half expecting her to drop out of sight and onto the ground.

“Mh..” That one evaporated into the quiet night, slunk right off into the thick shadows.

“What was that?”

Another exhale, accompanied by a fleeting, lopsided grin.

“Yessir.”

He kept his eyes on the swivel, from one corner to the next, listened for footsteps that weren’t theirs as they hurried along the wide main road leading them to the front gates.

_How would you have explained this one, Redfield?_

Him, with a revolver tucked into his belt, or her, bleeding freely and a sword clutched in her left hand? Any moment now they’d bump right into a guard on his graveyard shift rounds, and then he’d be pressed for words he wished he had. If he did, maybe he could have explained it to _himself,_ too.

Which’d have been quite the feat.

Once out of the park, Chris felt an insistent drag as he pulled her forward. She’d almost slowed to a complete stop, and if the car hadn’t come into sight, he thought he might have had to throw her over his shoulder and carry her the rest of the way.

_That might have been a good idea from the start, you idiot._

The car stood in solitude on the lot, surrounded by nothing but empty, flat concrete. Its headlights flashed bright when he unlocked it, greeted them both with familiarity and a little bit of _home_. Or, rather, a promise of escape.

Chris stopped her by the passenger door. She still held on to the sword, and when he tried to pull it from the white knuckled grip, she didn’t budge. He sighed, forced her left hand open with a firm squeeze and a push of his thumb. A weak hiss slipped from her lips, but the sword clattered to the ground. Her eyes cut to him, full of honey coloured resentment.

Chilly apprehension grasped his spine.

“Get in.”

* * *

 _ **N** ot good. _Sadja felt the ground at her feet tilt ever so slowly forward, as if it was exceptionally eager to come up and greet her. Or have _her_ come down _there_ , so she could get snuggly with it.

 _Stay awake,_ she told herself, gripped the sword tighter. _You’ve had worse fledgling wannabe Keeper._

Way worse, with cuts wide and deep, enough to have her wonder if there was ever a _bigger_ word for stitches. For times uncounted she’d been left with death ready to rap her knuckles against her door. Though then she’d had options. With Elaya’s hem teeming with things plump and alive, full of strong echoes that let her borrow from them, she’d always been fine.

But there was nothing _here_!

Anywhere she looked, anywhere she quested, soul grasping for the void around her — nothing, nothing worth plundering, nothing to lend her just a little strength so she could stop the bleeding.

Only heat, burning heat. The heat grabbed her hand, squeezed tight. She hissed, dropped the sword, and regarded the bloody furnace with a promise of pain.

“Get in,” he told her.

《《 “Don’t tell me what to _do_!”

Sadja twisted her torso to the right. Her left arm came around with the movement, using the shift of her body weight to achieve its full speed and force.

Her fist homed in on its intended mark: Tavi’s smug grin. Which was, as far as she was concerned, a perfect bulls eye for that particular target practice. It had been screaming _Hit Me_ for the better half of the day already, with every word that cunt spoke and every look into her direction. Luckily though, Sadja went off her mark. Mostly because she’d been angry, her head in disarray over nothing in particular and yet everything at once.

Her fist connected with Tavi’s jaw instead of her perfect white grin, sparing her the broken teeth, and Sadja the split knuckles.

“Sadja!” Sinvik and the Knight Commander shouted, for once, in unison. Chairs were pushed back in a hurry, crashed to the tavern floor. There was more, Sadja knew, but she was too occupied to pay any attention to the finer details of things unfolding around her. A chorus of voices erupted with the next heartbeat. Patrons shifted in their seats, craning their necks to get a better view at the sudden blur of dusky brown and bright red that came hurtling out from the side passage.

Bets were placed and the cheering started... such was the law of tavern brawls.

Tavi took the punch with a lot more grace than expected. She didn’t get knocked down on her stupid fat ass, for one. Instead, the Sare snatched her hands up, ready to throw her stupid fucking trick at Sadja and ruin her day yet again. The air at her fingertips blurred with the heat she conjured, and a wave of it slapped against Sadja’s gates.

Sadja recoiled from the first jab. She staggered, almost falling victim to her own legs crossing beneath her, but managed to weave out of the way by a hair’s width. The sickly smell of _nothing_ burning touched her nostrils, as Elaya’s hem was set alight around her. More hot nothing whispered against her side, nicked her hip.

That bitch wanted to burn her up!

Sadja coiled her muscles for another strike just as Tavi passed her in the frenzied attempt to pummel into her. The moment the Sare drew close again, Sadja slipped aside, snapped her right knee up and drove it right into Tavi’s stomach. With a noise akin to air being sucked through a straw, Tavi’s concentration gave way and the heat dissipated.

The redhead folded forward, and Sadja followed the kick with a solid left hook to her temple. Tavi hit the floor.

In her mind's eye, Sadja already landed blow after blow, beating the insolence out of the Sare.. inch.. by.. inch.. and she was savouring each strike and each hard knock against her knuckles. Even if they’d bleed. She didn’t care. They could _break_ and she’d still be having a merry good time.

That image, however, didn't quite match with the sudden restraint around her arms, or how she was swept from the floor with her forward charge towards the prone Tavi.

For a heartbeat, Sadja found herself suspended in the air, her feet not finding purchase as she was pulled away. A low growl of disappointment released itself from her chest, like the ugly beast it was. White, hot fury... pent up for weeks upon weeks. Never allowed its release despite the howling pleas from deep within her.

_No, No, **NO**!_

No more. No more cage, no more chains. Today was _her_ turn. _Now_ was her time to show that rat on the floor who’d laugh at the end of it.

 _< Now is such a bitter sweet word. _ Now _you're free._ Now _you can do as you please._ Now ** _. >_**

The iron grip tightened and her arms remained locked in place behind her back. All the forceful shrugging of her shoulders did her no good. She tried to snap her elbows back. Not enough reach, they dug harmlessly into a firm side. She tried to dip low, snatch a leg back. No luck, they were kicked forward again. She threw her head back, waited for the rewarding _POP_ of a nose breaking… _THUMP_ , her skull connected with a chest.

She couldn't reach Tavi.

The beast roared in protest, forcing her to ignore the mounting pain radiating from her shoulder sockets. She even disregarded the sudden upside-down notion of her stomach as her nostrils registered a familiar, dusky scent from behind her.

 _Get your HANDS OFF ME!_ She wanted to screech. _I’m not done yet!_

Tavi stirred, one hand grabbing at her head and the other wiggling its fingers. She was sticking her painted fingers into Elaya’s hem again, stirring it alight.

_She wants to burn you! Stop that bitch!_

Another growl, this time more defiant and dangerous. _Please_. Just one boot to her ever-pleased-mug! Just _one_. Sadja jerked forward. A quick yank back almost had her right shoulder tear from its socket. The poor thing sent shrill bursts of pain at her, begged her to stop torturing it.

Even the sight of Teel kneeling next to Tavi, doing what a Knight Commander of the Ward so did when he _balanced_ a Sare, didn’t stop the insanity barking in her skull. The beast howled for blood, howled right past Sinvik as she ran right up to her, amber eyes wide with— things. A bit of surprise. A little pride. But mostly anger.

Anger.

“Elaya’s bloody knickers, love, what’s gotten into you!” The Keeper snatched her chin, squeezing it between her fingers.

At that, the grip on Sadja’s arms relaxed. It didn’t release her, now that’d be too much to ask, just gave her enough room for her shoulder sockets to burst into a song right then and there, a joy Sadja didn’t share with them. She stared past Sinvik, avoided the disappointment levelled at her, and focused on a particular nick in the woman’s leather armour cresting her right shoulder.

And the _beast_ , suddenly aware that things had not gone as planned, quickly scuttled back into whatever dark cage it called home, slammed the door shut behind it, just in case, and fell silent.

Sadja heard her own throat click, and Sinvik released her chin to step away. Her breathing stopped, her heart hammered against her ribcage. Voices bounced against her ears. Arguing. Insulting each other. Insulting her. None of it mattered, she didn’t hear them. An orchestra of weak excuses kicked up a storm in her head, trying to justify what she’d done. Trying to justify the beast for wanting to rip Tavi to shreds.

She wanted to crawl under a rock. Failing that, she wanted to back away, remove herself as far from the scene of her own crime as possible. She tried, but there was no-where to go. Just a flat, firm chest. One hand slipped off her arm, decided her neck was a better place to be. It squeezed, just enough to get her attention, flirting with pain.

“Breathe,” the Pariah whispered into her ear, and Sadja’s lungs sucked in air on his behest.

“Catfights, really?” He was smiling. She could tell, by how his drawl lifted. It made even his words _sound_ lopsided, like the smirk on his lips, she was certain.

“Shut up, Nathric,” Sinvik cut in, her words cutting at Sadja, rather than the Pariah, and slicing deeper than any sword might have ever had. 》》

 _Don’t tell me what to do…_ the beast growled and stalked from its cage.

* * *

 **S** he squared her shoulders. The lacerations in her back must have burnt fierce then, but she didn’t seem to care. Chris frowned. The resentment faded, driven from her eyes by cooped up fury. A single breath of air slipped from her lips.

_No. Fuck no.._

He recognised that look. The one she’d caught him in, that night she’d killed two men. The one that had preceded her rushed attack on him.

_You DO NOT fuck me over now. I’ve had enough for one night._

“I said,” he repeated and reached around her to prop the door open. “Get _in_.”

Chris grabbed her by the collar of her shirt as he leaned over her, and twisted it in his grip. In response to the cloth cutting into her throat, Sadja snatched at his arm and squeezed. A moment ago she’d been about to faint, now her grip felt firm. Unyielding. Painful, almost.

She tensed in front of him. Her breathing slowed. His hackles rose. A disaster started brewing, not even an inch from his chest, and he half expected her to just go ahead and sink her teeth into him.

No. She wouldn’t. Would she? _Let’s not find out._

Chris shoved her shredded back into the frame of the car. The disaster yelped. He didn’t like the pained noise, but he’d trade it for the violence in her eyes any day. And when she looked at him, honey coloured eyes struggling to focus, the desire to gut him had dissipated.

“Ouch,” she murmured.

Chris thought it lacked conviction, sounded more like a statement than a heartfelt complaint. Like she didn’t care much about it, or that he’d done it at all. Like she’d expected it, really.

She was back on borrowed time, too. Pale as a ghost. Ready to drop.

Her head shook briefly, like she’d just walked into a spiderweb and tried to shake the silk strands free. She sighed, too. Sniffed. And then she climbed into the car without another word, and left him staring down at the sword by his feet.

No way he’d bring that shit.

* * *

 _< **G** ood-for-nothing, two-bit cur! Simple, sorry ass, MULE! > _The beast raged in the pit of her stomach.

< _OAF, > _It howled, raking at her insides for good measure, and then slunk away with its tail between its legs.

Or so Sadja liked to think as she planted her forehead firmly against the dash in front of her. The door to her right slammed shut. Then the one on her left. Then _CLICK_ went the key, and the metal beastie came alive with a throaty rumble of its engine.

Who would have thunk, full of surprises, that one.

That furnace, that simple soldier with his shattered soul. He was a keg full of the unexpected, and each time she knocked into it, another one slipped from its brim and left her positively livid with questions.

How could such a barren world breed something like him? She latched onto this particular mystery, turned it over in her head, while the rumble of the engine rose to a pitched growl.

Sadja liked the sound it made, and how the acceleration snatched her backwards. Horses were boring, in comparison.

He turned a corner. Sadja slid to the left. Her shoulder bumped into his hand and he pushed her back in place.

 _< Grrr… >_the beast vented from its shadows. _’He-he,’_ she giggled back, if a little lacking conviction. She couldn’t blame the beast for being all up in arms. All it had wanted was to do what was its given right: Take the opportunity to stretch it legs while Sadja stood at the fringes of flaking out, losing her control on it, its chains falling open. Night could she fault it for its vindictive nature, how it had delighted in knowing Redfield stood within reach.

 _Tit for Tat,_ Sadja had told him earlier. < _Tit for Tat, > _the beast had thought, too.

But then had come the scorching switch, and whipped it right off its barbed throne. Now it sulked. Beaten and confused.

Sadja sighed, lifted her left arm, and blindly groped along the dash. The hush out there vexed her. With her head aflutter with opinions, she craved a little bit of distraction, and so she went in search for the radio and its landscape of nubs and buttons.

Redfield, on the other hand, disagreed with her quest to shatter the silence. He snatched her hand and gently, yet without much room for argument, guided it back to rest against by her ear.

She sighed again, and had another go at the radio, and made it halfway across before he grabbed her wrist. This time, he didn’t let go. The metal beastie slowed down too, its growl settling back into a collected purr.

At first, Sadja thought he’d start lecturing her, but then bright light glared through the front window, lit up the cabin with all manners of _too bright_ , and danced across her closed eyelids.

Redfield’s battered soul thrummed with alarm. His grip on her wrist tightened. The bestie slowed some more too, fell into a well mannered pace, and Sadja blinked her eyes open.

_What’s got you all worked up now?_

She lifted her head just enough to be able to peer out the window. A stubborn collection of stray hair tickled her nose and lips, and she puffed at them with irritation.

_Huh?_

Three wide vehicles shot towards them. Thick wheels, low roofs. All business, no play. They stirred the deeply rooted anxiety in the furnace next to her, for reasons unknown to her. Which meant she’d have liked to know and it tickled her curiosity just enough to almost forgive him for not letting her have at the radio.

_Should we be all worried, too?_

There was that too, of course. If he’d gotten himself spooked, then maybe she ought to as well. Except she didn’t feel like it. Couldn’t even she tried, really. Too much hurt. Too much tired.

“Eh—“ she started, just as Redfield set his foot down and the beastie responded in kind, growling forward.

 _SWOOSH_ the first vehicle went by. _SWOOSH_ , the next one — and Sadja felt apprehensive fury slap against her gates as it passed.

Very _familiar_ fury, the one she’d caked in flour and left cursing her to Hell back in that awful, cold place.

_Elaya be damned, you’re one stubborn cunt, Nivans._

She hacked a misplaced laugh up her throat. Nothing to get her panties into a knot over then. He’d been too late. Again.

_Better luck next time, eh?_

More giggles. They shifted her back against the cloth and teased the gashes, but were very well worth it. Even Redfield’s worry lifted, and he turned curiosity her way instead. It tickled as it crept up her spine, one pinch at a time, and offered a brief lull to the throbbing pain.

He released her wrist. She drew back her hand, rested it by her head, fingers curling against the dash, and started tapping them idly to distract from the pain.

And when he flicked on the radio, Sadja allowed herself a quick smile.

Full of surprises indeed.

* * *

 _ **Y** ou’ve made your bed, now lie in it, _Chris told himself while her fingers drummed along the dash in an imperfect rhythm. At least it couldn’t get any worse, or so he thought while he kept pushing the car towards the cluster of lights promising a town and a way out.

Sadja disagreed with that. At first it was a hum, which he could have lived with, but then she started breaking her voice up and down along the notes of the radio and he wished she’d just passed out after all.

Girl _really_ couldn’t sing.

His right eye twitched.

By the time she tripped over _Anyway you want it_ the fourth time, Chris started frantically searching the side of the road for a lamppost to wrap the car around.

Why not put them both out of their misery once and for all? Alternatively he could find a place decent enough to stitch her up in, and _then_ drown her in a toilet.

Whichever came first.

He took a deep breath, very much wanting for a drink right about then, and tried hard not to run up and down the list of possible ways he could get her to shut up. Wringing the air from her throat (a personal favourite, he admitted) had just crossed his mind, when a motel came into view on the left. A dingy looking townhouse at best, squeezed between flat storefronts, with a poor excuse for a parking lot sitting empty in front of it.

It’d do.

“Fucking finally…” he groaned, swung the car left, and cut across the road onto the driveway.

The sudden change of direction sent his burden sliding to the right, pushed her dislocated shoulder right into the door. The singing stopped.

“GNAH!” she exclaimed, followed by a dull thud as the car bucked and knocked her forehead into the dash.


	19. Fireproof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Redfield gets himself a new nickname, and is presented with a lovely back. Along with a lot of answers.

**FIREPROOF**

* * *

**《《** Wide eyed terror should have ruled Sadja as the shackles dug into her wrists and the chains kept her tethered to the low ceiling, suspended in the centre of the circular room. It’d have made sense. Would have been reasonable. Sensible— but very little was any of that these days. And even less still mattered.

Her arms burnt. That was a fact, and that made it real, made it mean something.

She craned her neck, stared at the weeping wounds circling her biceps. Her brow furrowed, and lips pulled down in a tight frown. She’d never thought she’d miss the voidmite bindings. Never thought she’d think they’d been pretty, with their delicate engravings worked into the metal. Metal that cut into her. Skin, meat and soul— Chop. Chop.

Her eyes refocused. Found the whitewashed walls fencing her in, clean and neat, as the Ward would so have it. They fell away to a paneled ceiling, and a dark wooden floor. If she looked down, if she could be bothered to, if she liked to challenge her imagination, she’d see the stains.

Blood. Scorch marks of spilled coal. They marred it generously, a testament to the Wards hard work, a work she’d stood by and had watched before. Witnessed by the account of standing vigils to due punishment inflicted upon unruly Sare.

She exhaled. Her breath whispered across the broken skin, teased the open gashes, and Sadja shivered, an unbidden spasm that strained her joints, wanted to pull her apart.

Unruly. Ill behaved. A little too much left, not enough right. Or the other way around, or maybe a sneeze at the wrong time, an eye turned to a Knight on her bloody turn.

Sare had been sent here for much less than her.

Unlike them, she’d earned it.

Grief snagged her heart.

“You murdered my son,” Augustus vil Marrk repeated.

_I killed my husband._

“For her. You took him from me, because of _her._ ”

She had a name. Sinvik. Shielding. Keeper.

Sadja’s heart kicked. Too loud. Too hard. It rang her ears like a Ranger’s shot might. Like the one that had ended Ceat. The one that had snuffed the green from his eyes, the flush from his cheeks. The _him_ from, well.. him.

_I didn’t mean to._

Augustus vil Marrk, grieving father, hating father in law, studied her from an arms length away. He stood taller than Ceat had, and where his only son had been lean and maybe even a bit spindly, Augustus had himself a slightly wider set of shoulders and thicker arms.

The Ward’s colours seemed to fit him better, too. They’d always looked a little odd on Ceat. Like they’d oppressed him, rather than helped him with all the oppressing he’d been meant to carry out in their name.

A sash in mossy green wrapped around Augustus’ torso; _Vigilance_. Something the man displayed right now, with his matching green eyes not once leaving her. She might dissipate otherwise. Go up in a puff of smoke.

_'Sadja would have liked that, wouldn’t she? '_

Yes she would have, but she didn’t need anyone telling her that. Where’d that come from anyway? She looked around. Just her and him. And a disembodied voice in her head, a guttural hiss spat at her from the recesses of a mind no longer truly her own.

She was going insane, wasn’t she?

Her eyes went back to Augustus. Back to the colours. Something to focus on. Something else than the cruel voice.

Blood reds were stitched into armour, trousers and boots alike, and lined the fringes of his overcoat; _Protection_ , that’s what that one stood for.

He looked _protected_ enough, with his sturdy set of armour, chain and leather alike. A gauntleted hand rested on the pommel of his sword. The blade, Sadja knew, was voidmite.

Then there were gentle ochre tones that made up most of his coat; _Servitude_. Servitude to mankind. To Emperors, to Kings, and to the common people, all alike beneath their wide heel.

Oppression and terror, if she dared think it, still lacked their own colours. One’d be purple, she figured.

_'And yellow like piss.'_

Yeah.

Sadja frowned, tried to shift her weight, tried to ease the pressure on her shoulders as her arms were dragged up high by the chains. The shackles dug into her skin, bruised her bones. Made her joints ache, made her muscles strain with the constant drag. They’d snap. Any moment now, they’d snap.

A gauntleted hand snatched her chin, dragged her eyes from where they’d gone wandering the room again, forced them to look upon the man that would kill her.

_'We’d like that.'_

“He loved you,” he said.

Sadja knew that, of course. Her lips parted, tried to form a word or the other, something meaningless in the face of what she’d done. They failed, and Augustus released her.

He walked around her.

“Ceat sacrificed his birthright for you.”

He drove his fist into her markings.

White hot pain radiated away from them. It struck her spine and leapt up into her skull. Something scattered in there. Broke. She didn’t know what. But it had been important.

At some point. Not any more.

Cold metal pushed down against her skin where they’d opened up her shirt at her back.

“He thought you worth it. But _look_ at you. Marked. Cursed. My son was an _idiot!_ He should have listened to me, but you bewitched him. I don’t know how, but I’ll find out. You’ll tell me. And then you’ll tell me where the Keeper is.”

She tried to breath, forced the air down her own throat and into her lungs. There were tears there, somewhere, wanting to spill. She’d almost forgotten about those.

He ground a cold, gauntleted finger into the heart of her markings. Sadja whimpered, or at least she tried. The pain that came with the touch tied her stomach into a knot and then tied the rest of her up, too.

It was funny, if a little sad. Maybe ironic. She’d forgotten the words.

Why’d Ceat’s father have to be the first one to touch her markings? The first one to break the taboo. The first one to try and find out what made her tick?

What made her hurt.

He got back to work, and she screamed. **》》**

 **S** adja had never liked her markings. To be an unwilling, living canvas to a freakish _thing_ on your back, that tickled her entirely the wrong way. Hardly any Sare did, truth be told. They really only served one purpose, and that was to set them aside from those gifted with mediocrity. Worse, they hurt like _fuck_ if you weren’t careful. Or if you had a grieving father knock his gauntleted fist into them.

But you learned to live with it. To guard yourself. Most Sare caught on quick, like a child learned not to poke itself in the eye with a fork. It came natural, all part of the deal, all part of the burden. You took note where it hurt most and what made it worse, and like any Sare you soon forgot they were even there, except for the times when the just _were_ and you— _Shit, this hurts._

Sadja let the scalding hot water cascade down her back. Her mouth worked up a storm of soundless curses, and her left fist gave the wall in front of her a decent pounding. The water ran red with her blood. Thick at first, then thinner and thinner, until all that was left was a faint pattern circling the drain by her feet. She tilted her head into the stream of water, allowed its warmth to grant her a moment of respite.

Maybe if she stayed in here things would fit themselves back together on their own. No need to go out there. No need to bother Redfield any more than she already had. She stretched her neck left, then right. Lifted her right arm, rested the palm of her hand against the wall and leaned her weight onto it.

Still sore, but better, after Redfield had demonstrated his inability to count.

“On 3,” he’d said. “One-“ _POP_ , her shoulder had snapped back where it belonged, and she’d called him something entirely unflattering.

The fledgling Keeper was an ungrateful thing. Sadja sighed.

 _Quit stalling…_ She told herself.

 _Just what am I supposed to_ say _?_ She argued back.

He’d be asking questions, and she’d have no-where to run out there. He’d want answers this time too, no more runarounds, no more empty trades.

_You can always lie._

But how?

_And why?_

Where were the words for any of it? The truth, the half truth, or the wild tales she could spin? Certainly not in her head, that bloated thing she’d stuck into the steam of the scalding shower. The water might have washed away the blood and grime and rinsed the dirt from her hair, but it hadn’t done her thoughts any good. If anything, it had made her tired. Even more so than before.

She snatched for the valve, cut off the water. It spluttered and coughed up a few more stubborn drops.

“Right then, useless Keeper hatchling.”

She squeezed herself from the shower cabin and craned her neck to catch a glimpse at her back in the mirror. Three puncture wounds where the left paw had landed, three gashes on the right, just below her shoulder. It had _felt_ worse, and it had probably been worse too before the beast had given her body enough strength to knit some of the meat back together. Still, two would need stitches. The rest, they’d heal just fine on their own.

Sadja wrapped a towel around her middle, secured it as tight as she could against her hips, and draped another over her shoulders, tugging it in place over her chest.

 _You’re just about tickling at the bottom of_ decent _here._

Truth, that.

A fleeting, grim smile later, she imagined herself lighting a match as she stepped from the tiny bathroom, ready to stick her head down a Bell-bellie’s* gaping maw and have it catch fire around her. Because clearly strolling out here, good as naked no less, was a fantastic idea and nothing whatsoever could ever go wrong. But if one didn’t carry their clothing in from metal beastie, one had to make due with what one had. That being a set of white hotel towels.

She nudged the door open fully, and hoped Redfield had taken off. It’d make this easier, if not a little awkward since she’d not yet learned how to grow arms on her back to stitch herself up.

He’d not gone anywhere, of course, still sat where she’d left him, at the edge of a bed in the centre of the narrow room.

All glum again too, eyes downcast and studying the _Ranger_ he turned between his hands. Dim, dirty light enveloped him, and a pale glare from the stubby looking _Tee-Vee_ box thing drew sharp angles on his face. He’d not switched on the sound on it, and so it stood flickering mute pictures into the room from its perch on a dresser opposite the bed.

Redfield’s eyes lifted when she entered. He stared, a straight to the point snatch of his eyes that caught her in a net of inquisitive studies— a man that didn’t play at being a shy damsel, or pretend he didn’t care about her poor attempt at decency. That, at least, was something she could appreciate.

And the more staring he did, the less questions he’d ask. And the less of that, the less headache he’d inflict on her.

Her shoulders were subjected to a quick inspection first, but they held nothing of interest, being shoulders and all. Then down along her sides next, surveying skin and muscle, until he reached her midriff. The survey paused, settled on an ugly knot of scarred skin starting a finger’s width above her right hipbone.

His brow furrowed, as if he’d like to will the towel away so he could see the rest of the scar, and cogs started turning in his skull.

She could tell by how the muddy blue stare lost focus, stared more for the sake of it, than to actually see what he’d found interesting at first. At that rate she’d be standing here all night.

Sadja sniffed in a quick breath of air, feigning at annoyance, and folded her arms.

Both his eyes and the quiet thought fell away from her, once again proving that a Shielding certainly knew how to ruin the mood.

Redfield stood without a word and walked around the bed to the nightstand where she’d dumped the _Rule 4_ emergency kit for him. It might have impressed him just a tad, seeing how she’d stocked her own little infirmary without him having been any the wiser, but now that he looked at it again he seemed of a different mind altogether.

An uneasy ripple passed by her gates. Doubt.

_On fire, no less. How bloody weird is that?_

The doubting furnace sighed, picked up the supplies, and indicated the bed with a brief nod of his head.

 _Sit,_ the gesture said.

So far so good, Sadja thought. Maybe he’d keep up with the silence. She padded across the floor, watched him place the _Ranger_ on the nightstand. Carefully, like he was worried it might go off and ruin his night even more. A thing, she figured, fairly far outside the realm of possibilities. Though what did she know? A purple unicorn might come stomping through the door and try to skewer the both of them.

He pushed the _Ranger_ aside, moved it closer to the ammunition belt. A brief twitch of his shoulders told her he didn’t like it.

Sadja climbed onto the bed, tucked her legs under her, and sat with her back as straight as she could. From across of her, the _Tee-vee_ thing glared bright, muted pictures at her. Its control-gadget lay by the edge of the bed, so she snatched it up, ran her thumb up and down the buttons, and waited for Redfield to gather the supplies and his courage. Whichever one he could collect first.

Eventually, the bed shifted under her. It uttered a cranky creak, old springs protesting loudly. Her spine stiffened, urged her to not trust a man with a needle anywhere near it, but Sadja discarded the worry.

 _Only a little threat,_ she reminded herself. _And mostly well behaved._

In front of her, in the confines of the _Tee-Vee_ box, a lanky looking gray rabbit started harassing a grumpy black duck… thing. Sadja tilted her head. What in Elaya’s fetching name were they _doing_?

And behind her, nothing much was happening at all. No word was spoken, no muscle moved. Except the curiosity that tickled at her gates, all sparks and embers and persistent as fuck.

Then he moved, finally, and Sadja had to curb her own urge to leap from her skin when he placed a hand against her shoulder. His thumb slid underneath the towel, pushed against her nape, and she leaned forward with the pressure.

The curiosity faltered. A very distinct and course heat came prowling at her gates and stalked her soul like a starving animal. She’d have liked to flick it aside, but that’d mean venturing out there, armed with nothing but a drowsy mind. Literally, almost, with her pants ‘round her ankles. If one ever wanted a recipe for things about to go terribly wrong, this was just it.

“Don’t get all worked up over most of them,” she chimed at Redfield.

It was his attention she wanted, yes. But not the one that set his mind all wandering places it had no business to be in. She kept her voice well aloof and chirpy as the fledgling Keeper could get.

“Just stitch up the two big ‘uns on the right, would you?”

In response, the distinct heat lurched away from her gates, and Sadja would have liked to whoop at the retreating prowler. But then that bloody thing sat down just out of reach, not quite willing to sod off entirely.

 _Bugger,_ she thought, all trapped in the confines of her own weary self, and listened to Redfield remembering how to go about filling his lungs with air, and then exhale said air again.

Breathing. ‘Tuff thing to do at times.

“Right,” he said.

 _Right indeed,_ she agreed and continued watching the rabbit with his companion, the distressed black duck. They were having a hushed argument. Now just why would a rabbit be getting into it with a duck?

A light finger took a careful hike along one of the gashes, but instead of staying there, and getting down to business and sticking a needle there, it veered off to the left. It went climbing over her spine ( _… what are you doing?_ ), quested two centimetres down, and met the inner circle of her markings.

Sadja squeezed a hiss from her lips.

“Don’t,” she warned him.

“That’s not ink,” he stated, and ignored her polite notice.

“Now why-bloody-ever would I have ink on my back?” she muttered.

“Tattoos.” He sighed, traced a quarter of the jagged circle, before letting his calloused finger hitch a ride along one of the barbed bolts arching away from it. It’d take him all the way up to her nape, unless he got sidetracked and followed one of the offshoots instead. That’d have him climb her spine again and inch closer towards one of the gashes.

“You’re clever, Redfield. Bu—” Sadja clenched her jaw. He covered a particular stretch of her markings that made the muscles in her lower back contract without her say in it.

He paused. “But?”

“Just bloody stitch me up, will you? Before I start bleeding again, just out of principle too.”

The bastard had caught on, and his finger dipped back down. She twitched again.

“Hmm,” he hummed.

Then he pushed down slightly, with the curiosity swatting at her gates like the inquisitive kitten it so always was. Swat-Swat-Swat it went, and then he applied just a little too much pressure, and the claws came out and turned the swatting into a fatal mishap. The touch sent her hip twitching forward and kicked her nerves into a flurry of flashes.

She would have sat bolt upright then, but the hand on her nape kept her spine from snapping to attention.

Her much more vivid reaction had the curiosity bolt for cover though, and surprise dragged Redfield’s finger from her markings. For a moment he sat stock still. Poor thing had spooked himself.

Sadja breathed out an annoyed chuckle.

“Hm,” he went again. More curt this time, less hum, more a declaration of some scientific fact. Filing his findings away, labelling them neatly too, she figured.

“What were they?”

She frowned, tried to turn her head around to offer him a plea for silence, but the damned hand slid under the towel completely and fasted itself around her nape where it tightened. The thumb pushed down painfully. Her eyes fell back onto the rabbit and his ducky companion. They’d been joined by a stocky looking fellow with a rifle and a funny hat.

“What was what?” Feign ignorance, buy yourself a heartbeat?

“Those… things? Reapers?” Something gave a timid click, and the sharp scent of disinfectant wafted over her shoulder.

“Mh. Reapers, if you like. Sarehound is what I’d call ‘em.”

“What are they?”

_Starting slow, are we, Redfield?_

A piece of wrapping had itself torn open, and _Glug-glug_ the liquid went.

“Trackers,” Sadja stated truthfully.

A cold and wet piece of cloth found the biggest of the gashes. And that shit stung. She sucked in a quick breath.

“Spare me the details.”

Sadja puffed out a breath of air and egged him on: “Have you found your humour, Redfield? Where ’s it been hiding all that time?”

In response the pad with the nasty sting dabbed down fiercely. She grimaced while the stubby looking man in the _Tee-Vee_ started chasing the rabbit around the place, and Sadja lifted the control-gadget.

 _Okay— so this one is…_ Her thumb hit a button meant to show her a different picture, and the _Tee-Vee_ thing flickered. _Ha! I’m brilliant._

“What do you want to know? Where they come from? Why they’re here? What they’re tracking?”

“You,” he interrupted. The cloth vanished. More wrapping tore. “That’s what they were tracking.”

He paused again, and the curiosity crept back into focus. The thumb on her nape slid down, met the ends of her markings and ran along the beveled tips. That tickled, more than anything. A warm tickle that lifted the chill of the room from her skin. Even if just briefly.

Sadja glared at the _Tee-Vee_ , since she couldn’t glare at the insolent furnace, and watched a man cook. Her stomach rumbled. She pushed the button again, and again. Until she found what she’d been hoping for.

Silent horror unfolded in front of her, confined within the square box of flickering colours. A banner of blue ran below the picture, with words rolling by, speaking of _Bioterrorism_ and the toll it took on this otherwise mundane world.

She glanced down at the control-gadget, back at the _Tee-Vee_ thing, and then around the room.

Mundane? It was _fantastic_.

Things far-fetched and insane lay all around her. You didn’t need to command Elaya’s hem to build, to create, to invent things of startling power. Their souls might lack substance and flit about aimlessly, but they flew the skies for crying out loud. They conquered the seas, they _phoned_ each other and they—

“I’m waiting,” he nudged her thoughts off their path and had her once again grasping for words that wouldn’t just unearth more questions. There weren’t any.

_Distract and divert?_

“Tell me, Redfield, they can’t be the worst you’ve seen?”

Something cold nicked at her back. There was that needle, all pointy and needly and _ouch_. It didn’t come back around for a second sting. Not right away, at least, likely hovered there, all ready for the assault but not given a chance.

“What?”

_I hereby dub you “Chris-What-Redfield”, the man without a clue._

“The _Sarehounds_ , they can’t be the worst you’ve run into.”

There it was again, that cold and mean needle.

He sighed. “You’re not making any sense.”

“I mean, look…” Sadja lifted her left arm, pointed at two lumbering hulks of flesh as they did all sorts of mean lumbering down a narrow looking street. _Napads_ they were called, she remembered. A beam of light tracked them, wobbling unsteady. There were men standing in front of them. They held a clumsy formation and had rifles pushed to their shoulders. Those rifles were spitting projectiles that seemed to bounce harmlessly off their targets. Things just kept on lumbering…

“That. That is worse. Right?”

Redfield forgot about the needle. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d just left it there, dangling from a thread, and marched out of here in search of a drink. Even that prowling thing was forgotten in favour of vivid anxiety. Like flicking one big red switch after you ignored the blatant “DON’T TOUCH” written above it.

Right. That had been a bad idea.

“You’re perfectly safe here,” she told the anxious furnace. “They aren’t going to come climbing out of there.”

That nipped at his pride just enough.

“Listen, you want to play more games? Fine by me,” he rasped, all torn between growling and howling and maybe shouting if that wouldn’t have meant getting the neighbours to ask questions. “But my fun meter is fucking pegged, so don’t expect me to be here when your _freak_ friends come knocking next time.”

He really _did_ drop the needle. The bed creaked again, the mattress shifted. His hand slipped away from her nape.

“And I’m tired, alright? I’m tired of your shit, and tired of…” The words didn’t quite fit themselves together for him and he let out a frustrated grunt.

 _creak_ the bed went again. Softer this time. An undecided shift of his weight. Much like his tattered soul, all at war again with itself, pulling this way and that and getting nowhere in the end.

“That stung, Redfield. Don’t call us freaks. We are people too, you know.”

_creak_

Sadja jammed her thumb down on the control-gadget. Some woman, just about as decently dressed as her, was dancing all pretty on a sheet of ice. She pushed that button again. People were running up and down a white beach, with turquoise waves lapping up against it.

_Neat._

“This isn’t helping,” he said, though Sadja disagreed wholeheartedly. The curiosity had snuck past the anxiety and with the next creak and shift of his weight he’d edged closer again. She could tell, since the cold air at her back warmed up.

“Careful what you wish for Redfield. You want my truth, you’ll have it, but don’t go crying about it later.”

 _Do not stand apart from your charge,_ the second rule of Keepers reared up to warn her. And while she had played a fun game not even pretending that she fit here, to lay it out plain to a man whose mind was already in ribbons? Now that was playing with fire. Literally, in his case.

“Try me,” he echoed his own words, the ones from that day when she’d flailed about trying very hard _not_ to explain herself.

“I’ll cut you a deal,” Sadja bargained. “One stitch. One question.”

Good enough, or so it seemed. He snatched up the needle and got to work.

“Ansel. What he did… did I…” There came the needle, but his first question was just about as clumsy as her own miserable stitches had been.

“A question this is not, Redfield. But let’s pretend.” She watched as men and women in various degrees of decency scurried across the pretty beach. Oh what she’d give to be there…

“Ansel vil Varc was a pompous ass and no one will miss him. And yes, he tossed you through the air and he busted open that gate.”

Heavy silence fell behind her. Had she just shattered his hopes of having imagined the whole ordeal?

“You expect me to believe that?” No. Still clinging on to denial for dear fucking life.

She shrugged. “You’re the one that went flying, not me.”

“Nine feet,” he muttered.”

“Nine feet,” she echoed. “What did it feel like?”

“Like getting hit by a bull.”

“Is that something that happens to you a lot, Redfield? Getting charged by a bull?”

Sadja remembered the bruises. Might not have been a bull, might have been one of those grizzly looking _Napads_ , now that she thought about it.

“What?” He paused halfway through a stitch. “No.” And on he went: “He tried the same with you.”

Sadja huffed. “Of course he would. Tiny prick and bloated ego, what else ‘d you expect?”

“Uh— “

“That it’d work? Haven’t you noticed, Redfield? Aren’t I peculiar?”

“Not the word I would use.”

“Of course not, it’s a bit of a mouthful for you, mh?”

“ _Psychotic._ That’s the one.”

“Oh come on now, I’ve been treating you right.” She chewed on that for a moment, and added a hopeful: “Mostly.”

“You’ve got about another hundred grand of Euros and US Dollars stashed in your fucking duffel. You carry around firearms. You don’t know what the Atlantic is.”

“I didn’t know what _coffee_ was either. See how that changed, now I can even cook up my ow—“

“Brew,” he interrupted her. Swoop came the needle. “And no, you can’t.”

“So I’m a work in progress, Redfield. What’s so bad about that?”

He exhaled an annoyed puff of air. Annoyed, and amused. It tickled her shoulders.

“And yes, Ansel is just as peculiar. _Was_ that, anyway, him being dead now and all. Would likely stand in awe just like me when seeing his first set of stairs moving on their own.”

“Escalators.”

“Yes, exactly. They’re a bit pointless though, aren’t they?”

“… you are not supposed to use the same one both ways.”

“Why not? That was fun.”

There it was again, that puff of air, with one leg over the fence to something genuine and pleasant. It prickled down her skin, leaving a trail of shy warmth.

_Right. Strap in, Redfield. Here we go._

“If you’re willing to accept me different, then accept him as such too. Ansel and me, we were one and the same. And we’ve got the same place to call home. A home with a different map of stars in the skies, and a thing much less friendly crouching in it than your pleasant silver moon. In those skies you won’t find your beloved planes. My home has no metal beasties or _trains_ on the ground, and its crust is not covered in leagues of grey concrete.”

Sadja allowed her words free rein while she watched the _Tee-Vee_ do its thing. A man in red shorts, clutching a red floaty device under his arm, leapt into the waves towards a busty brunette in distress.

Redfield offered no protest. The bed gave a slight creak again, and then _CLICK_ went a tiny scissor as he cut the threat to his first project.

Still on the task, not arguing. He _listened_ instead. All of him sat alert, and Sadja caught herself pondering just what his inquisitive soul might feel like if it wasn’t trying to turn her to cinders.

It’d be heavy still, she wagered. It’d reach far, encompass things around it with a steady, sure footed presence.

“You won’t find _coffee_ there. Or cotton candy. And, worse, the only _rock_ we’ve got is the one of the stone variety.”

Behind her, Redfield shifted his weight once more. She heard him exhale that puff again, and felt a pang of irritation when it was wasted on empty air, since he’d turned to soak another slab of cloth with disinfectant. The cold sting of it followed quickly after.

“There, you’d call us _Sare_ . The Marked. There, we’re regarded as villains by birthright. A plight, a thing to subdue. Thralls. We’re divided by our talents. Categorised. Then we’re trained, honed for our designated purpose, like you’d forge a knife to either cut meat or bread. And after we’re put to use, we’re put down when we’ve outlived that purpose. We’re hated, because we’re different. We’re feared, because we’re _more_ , but for the most part we’d rather not be.”

Redfield sat still again, and Sadja sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, chewed on it while she waited for the _”Are you shitting me?”_

It didn’t come, instead he moved on with his life, as he ever so seemed to do. He plodded onwards, one step at a time. Or, as was the case tonight, one stitch after the other. She hated the sensation of the needle threading through, even with him being all careful about it. Each nick, each tug and each pull, they made her fingers curl around the control-gadget and into the towel stretched over her lap.

“So, I might not be the strangest thing you’ve ever seen, Redfield, but if you accept me _different_ , accept what comes with it. More questions, and by far not enough stitches to answer them all.”

Pensive silence rubbed against her back.

Sadja frowned, let the thoughtful furnace be, and absent-mindedly mashed down on the control-gadget. The beach fell away, and back around came the lanky gray rabbit and his ducky companion. They’d clearly made up their differences, and they’d donned suits and fancy hats. She blinked. Why were they doing a marching dance while twirling curved canes in their hands? “Huh.”

“You’ve never seen a cartoon before,” he observed. Testy as hell too, like he’d gotten out his hammer and chisel and was ready to chip away at her words.

“Nh.” She dared a peek over her gates, gave them a slight nudge.

“What was that?” Tug the needle went, stern and chiding.

“No, Sir.”

Out there, filling Elaya’s hem as far as she could gleam without venturing too far out, a smouldering hush pressed in close. She liked to think it a good thing. He was contemplating the possibility, the insanity, the strangeness of things. Dismissal could wait for later. Until then he’d settle for what he had.

“But you know how to handle a 1911.”

“A what?”

That stoked the flames again, and she slammed her gates as scorching heat licked from the hush.

“You are carrying around a Colt 1911, don’t tell me you don’t know how to fire it.”

“Oh. Yes, of course I do.” She flinched with the next swoop of the needle. “Sort of. Work in progress, remember?”

He exhaled sharply, this time struggling with restraint instead of unbidden humour.

“Your shiny pieces aren’t quite the same to what I’m used to,” Sadja defended herself. “Though you’ve figured that out already, haven’t you? Admirably so. Might have saved my life.”

The flames went higher.

“From where I was standing it was more a matter of _did_ , not _might_ ,” Redfield informed her. He gave the thread one last, firm tug and the scissor flitted by with a gentle snip and click.

“I suppose I should thank you then.”

“I’d say,” he agreed while he traced his handiwork with a light touch of a finger.

It trailed on, connected with a faded scar. That old thing would have a neighbour soon, she figured.

 _Done_ , he should have said then. _Thank you_ , would have been her reply. And then he’d have sent her on her way. Or at least off the bed. Or whatever you did when you didn’t really have anywhere to go. Maybe to sit in a corner and mind her own business while he’d scowl at her from afar.

But nothing moved back there, except his lungs and his finger. And likely his eyes and the cogs in his head, ever turning, with all sorts of shit now thrown into them for good measure.

* * *

 **T** he scar looked like someone had extinguished a cigar almost four inches across just below her right shoulder blade. Sort of. It had healed well, the bevels were subtle, barely visible against her pale skin.

_Sare what-now?_

Chris stared at the scarred tissue.

_Reapers. Sare. Nine-fucking-feet._

Nothing she said made any sense. He’d have liked to dismiss all of it, and finally admit that he’d spent the better part of a month with a mentally ill woman.

_A home with different stars?_

But this wasn’t simply a matter of rejecting her words. He couldn’t. They stuck to the inside of his skull. Stubborn. _Loud_. No amount of scrubbing was getting them off there.

“I upset a smith one day,” the voice murmured, drawing his thoughts away from the one _inside_ his head, to the one that put it there in the first place. “So he stuck me with the melting end of a steel rod. It smarted something fierce.”

“Occupational hazard?” He asked, fitting together a hazy memory of how she’d explained the ruined skin on her biceps. He grimaced.

_That wasn’t one of your good nights, was it, Redfield?_

“Nuh-huh. Just some misguided endeavours and too little sense.”

His eyes cut further down, where a more obvious swath of marred tissue covered a good portion of her right back. A bad case of road rash, if he was to guess. He flicked his thumb across it, getting her attention to follow and her quiet murmur to continue.

“Very sharp rock with a grudge. I fell on it on my way down a mountain, and it didn’t like that very much.”

She sounded… tired? Her melodic voice had lost the doggedness, the moxie in them. A drowsy rhythm remained. Physically spent, for once, he figured. She’d run out of steam, simple as that. Not drained or put down by whatever ghost hounded her. The one that had her turn expensive lofts upside down. Expensive lofts she didn’t belong into, where a single flipped fuse left her with the freezer thawing while she sat around helplessly.

Chris shoved the thoughts aside. Scars. Scars weren’t strange. Everyone had them. And there were plenty more. Didn’t matter where he looked ( _Don’t look left, Redfield. Don’t.)_ , he found _something_ close by, whether it was a small scrape, like the scratch of a cat, or well healed patches barely worth the mention… As if she’d decided to start collecting scars instead of stamps. Because stamps, or rocks or shells or whatever else kids picked up these days, that would just be too normal, wouldn’t it?

He glanced at her right shoulder. A thorny looking star. Despite the _Just cut it out, Redfield._ in his head, Chris let his hand lift to where his eyes fell.

“A spike,” she said when she felt the touch of his thumb. “I fell on that too. Don’t laugh.”

He didn’t. Laughing, Chris admitted, was not on the top of his mind right then. His hand cupped her shoulder. Small, fragile. Freshly set too. It probably hurt still. He should have gotten her some ice. Failing that, a towel soaked in cold water.

_Or maybe you should just leave it alone._

Ignoring his own advice, Chris let his hand slide along her arm. Her posture stiffened, her chin lifted. She didn’t turn around to look at him, or chide him, or otherwise make any indication of protest, simply continued looking at the cartoons rolling by on the old TV.

Wiry muscle tensed briefly under smooth skin as his hand slid along her arm. No, not really smooth— torn up by deep lacerations. They looped around her triceps and biceps, with frayed, ugly edges. Healed, but not healed pretty.

* * *

 **S** adja was hungry. Hungry and in pain. Tired too, with just a lick of energy to spare after her horrid excuses for sleep during the last few days. When Redfield didn’t rush her with more questions, but let her be, she’d have liked to turn around, give the man a good old squeeze, thank him, and then crawl under something warm and slept until the end of days. But he didn’t seem to fancy the squeeze, and instead went exploring, leaving her wondering if she should just get up and— go where, again?

_Lock yourself in the bathroom?_

The prowler circled her out there, getting mighty comfortable with rubbing up against her gates like he owned the bloody place.

_Curl up in the closet? Does this place even have a closet?_

With the needle gone, at least she no longer wanted to grip things tight with each touch. His touch tickled instead, all along the brand she’d gotten for stealing a horse, and through the furrows across the middle of her back that had almost ripped her spine out, and then went to hike back up to her shoulder to prod at where she’d slapped herself right onto a spiked wall.

 _Ignoring the main attraction, huh? What a trooper you are,_ she thought while fighting a yawn that worked tirelessly at trying to muscle her jaws open. Sleep, now that would have been a treat, but instead she labeled the collection for him. It wasn’t every day you got to show off the bibs and bobs on your favourite shelf, after all. Said shelf being yours truly.

Eventually, his hand wrapped carefully around her right shoulder, waking the ire of the slumbering beast. It flung itself against the bars of its cage and sent her heart into a brief flutter of vigorous pumping. The high didn’t last. It stayed just long enough for her to notice that both rabbit and duck had sodded off to make room for a brown mouse dressed all sharp in white, with a _gigantic_ yellow hat.

That, and that Redfield had a very warm hand. And unlike his soul it wasn’t out to burn her.

Her drowsy mind registered the curious touch as it rested against her arm, and how his thumb went up and down the ugly fuckers of scratches (or gashes or tears or whatever the biggest word for scratches could possibly be) playing them like strings on a sorry-ass fiddle.

“Bindings,” Sadja told him. “Some of us get them when we’re children. They don’t grow with us, so they grow into us, and working them out is a bit messy.”

Her wits were about ready to tuck themselves in for a good nap, whether she liked it or not, and then Redfield found her elbow, lifted it slightly, and she let him go about his business and closed her eyes.

He slid his hand along her lower arm, leaving the ghost of warmth picking at her senses. It felt a little like sticking your arm out into the sunlight after spending an eternity in a dank cave. Except not really, since sunlight tended to linger. This one just dissipated the moment the hand moved on, welcomed the cold right back in, and had her drowsy mind wish he’d make up his mind and stick around for a minute at least.

He didn’t heed her wishes, dragged her weary arm a little further, until he could inspect the claw marks that had garnered his attention. Or what was left of them at least. “Sapvek,” Sadja informed him. “Nasty buggers. They climb trees and lick bark and play a pretty lightshow at night, but they also pounce you and tear you to ribbons if given the chance.”

The confused furnace contemplated her word, or just stared at her, she didn’t rightfully know. Her arm got hitched up a little higher still, and the hand wrapped around her wrist.

Silence, a pause in his breath. A knock of concern, of something primal and simple that sat in every good heart.

His thumb rested against a set of small scars; A handful of nicks that broke off from her wrist, traveling in neat straight lines.

Those were the scars you bore with shame and regret. Not the ones you brandished proudly and spun tales about. They’d faded, like the rest of them. And they’d fade more and eventually they’d be nothing but a distant memory. One best not revisited. Ever. 

Apprehensive heat nudged at her gates, and Sadja shrugged at it. No need to explain.

Her hand was put back where it had come from, and for a moment, she thought he’d gotten discouraged and ready to leave her be. But there was that neat slice that rode just where the towel sat at her midriff, and it was way too good to pass up. Apparently. He traced it. A little too slow, a little too lightly. She breathed out an annoyed giggle and inched away from the touch.

“Sword,” she told the prowling furnace that had gotten all worked up over her reaction.

He “Hmm”ed at that, or so she thought, until she felt the towel move. A light nudge down, and he found the hideous mark that sat at the small of her back, right by the base of her spine.

Sadja’s eyes fluttered open and found the mouse scurrying across the _TeeVee_ , a trail of dust behind it. A familiar, dull pain drove through her abdomen. A phantom of years gone by, kindled by the feathery touch of an inquisitive furnace that had no idea what he was doing. Or what he was looking at.

“A man named Augustus vil Marrk,” she told him. Her right hand dipped behind her, and snatched at his arm. She pulled it away from her back, grabbed for his wrist, and guided his hand around her waist. A hint of resistance had the corners of her mouth twitch, but then the bed creaked and shifted as he settled himself closer to her. Cloth whispered against her back.

At first, the prowler seemed about ready to tackle her gates over. Sadja clicked her teeth shut at the persistent knocks. But then she placed his hand against the twin scar, the one he’d been staring at earlier, and the prowler bolted like she’d just dumped a glacier worth of ice over her gates. Like a true Shielding: Always ready to ruin the mood.

“He went in here—” she gave his hand a firm push, pressed his fingers into her skin. “—and came out the other side. With an iron poker. The sort you’ve got at a fireplace. All soot and coal and ash.”

His hand drew away, and the bed did its whole shifty creaky thing. A very orderly retreat, Sadja thought while she exhaled, willing the tension of the phantom pain to leave her be. She’d very much prefer the groggy calm.

Her back, still sore and in a grouchy mood over all the fresh gashes, punctures and the tense pull of the thread, complained even more when she dared stretching her spine first left, then right. And when Redfield tentatively placed his palm against her markings where they darted out of sight into the towel, and she arched into the touch without her say in it, her back informed her, without much grace, that it hated her, and would be tormenting her the rest of the night.

* * *

 **W** hen she’d sat down, and turned her back to him, Chris had found the particular piece of ink on her interesting.

A lightning strike.

Or rather, a thick, circular ring of lightning that sat below her left shoulder blade. Arching from the circle were the actual bolts, and not one was like the other. One struck upwards, an inch and a half from her spine. It was dark, mostly black, hints of mossy green dappling its edges. Much like lightning would, it branched out, drawing integrate patterns through her skin. They grasped toward her spine and shoulder, spread towards her nape, where they curled into corkscrew endings that wrung upwards until they ended in sharp tips.

Some of the lines faded, the colours blurring into her skin, as if the artist had run out of ink, but now that he sat so close to it he saw how they wormed their way through her skin, continuing beneath it.

No. Not ink at all.

Chris glanced at his hand resting against one of the bolts. This one traveled down her spine, looped around it from the middle down, then arched away to the left at about navel height, and from there it fanned out and eventually snuck under the towel, out of sight.

Clusters of bolts, all spreading from the circle sitting beneath her left shoulder. Hairline fractures. Corkscrew ends. A mess of colours thrown in, specks of orange and green as if someone had flicked paint through a fine sieve and given her back a once over. Or she’d grown freckles. Odd freckles.

He looked up.

Sadja sat very still. Barely breathing.

“What are they then?” Chris heard himself ask.

Did he want an answer to that? Likely not, but what harm could a few more insane ramblings do? He lifted his hand slightly, ran his thumb up the main trunk of the bolt starting at the rim of the towel. Much like scars, these lines were bevelled and uneven, but felt— more subtle. Softer. A little like tracking strands of silk, rather than broken skin.

“They’re there to mark us different,” she said, a careful quiver in her voice. Still tired, but having regained some of the bite.

“What do they do?” He reached her spine. The steady loop of the marking crept between her vertebra. It went left, then right. Then left again and right again. He paused at a stray branch. This one was damaged, torn up by a scar cutting it right in half. He took a detour, drew a line over that too.

“Mmpfh,” she went and her head twitched to the right.

“They’re annoying,” she muttered. “Is what they are. They’re no good for anything but getting caught over, and they _hurt_ for all sorts of reasons. Like when I fell down ‘Da’s barn as a wee lass. Knocked myself out for two days when I landed on ‘em the wrong way. That’s what they’re good for.”

 _Nerves. Right out in the open,_ Chris tried to explain for himself, while he looped back around and continued his hike up her spine.

“Generally,” she breathed when he reached the arch that met the circle. “We don’t like having them groped.”

“You all have them?” He chose to ignore the protest.

“Mh. Different ones, They—“ her voice trailed off, tangled itself in something the moment he’d flicked his thumb to the left and down to another bolt. This one would lead him almost all the way to the lowest rung of her ribcage.

“They’re unique,” she managed, sounding rattled. And a whole lot more tired.

“Hm,” Chris allowed himself, not quite knowing what to make of his latest discovery. Delve deeper? Move on?

_’Or leave her alone. Come on man. Stop.’_

“Some Sare are born with, uh…” A sigh, concealed as a drawn out breath, interrupted her.

_Hey, I didn’t even do anything._

“Uh… pretty ones. Mine’s a disaster. Quite literally.”

Chris glanced at the lightning decorating her. The rusty orange, the dirty green and black. The faint drops of colours.

It fit. Flawlessly.

Of course they all had to look different. It wouldn’t be right on anyone else. It’d be too far left, or too far right. Not matching up so well with where her heart sat. It wouldn’t wrap so delicately around just _any_ spine either. It’d mess up the rhythm. Sit askew. It had to be hers.

She was an anatomy chart of her own, each corded muscle sculpted perfectly. All he missed was a few pins and bits of paper to label them. Trapezius at the top, the Teres major and minor at her shoulder, and strong Latissimus Dorsi, and… so on and so on. Atop of that sat the markings, running along each muscle, like a current born from her. And her alone.

He clenched his jaw. It was a _pretty_ back. It’d fit well on the bed, facing away from him. Or propped against the wall. With his hands fastened around her hips.

 _Woah. Get it together there,_ he thought and “Why would you say that?” he muttered, hitched his thumb a little lower.

“Symmetry. Symmetry is what you want. That’s worth most. Symmetry and colours.” Another timid sigh; Air in, air halfway out. “There are Sare that never have to worry about the Ward causing them any grief. Their curse is just so darn pretty that aristocrats will outbid each other to get to parade them around at court. They’ll flaunt their bare backs for the world to see. They’ll even compete. _Compete_ , Elaya bloody squish them! Those stupid cunts, sitting on pedestals like prize… prize… ”

“… poodles?” Chris offered, and gently followed the mark back up.

“What’s a poodle…?” Dazed again. He applied more pressure, remembering the violent twitch of her hips. Too curious, too eager to find out what this one would do.

“What’s a Ward?”

Her throat clicked, a breath or swallow gone awry, and another barely audible sigh followed. Then her shoulders slumped forward.

“They’re the ones that will protect you from the likes of me,” she insisted, or at least tried to. She might as well have been talking in her sleep.

“Do I need protecting?” Another light push, and he had to prop her up with his free hand. She’d been about to topple over to the right.

“Mh… of course… I’m terrifying. The bigger the Marking, the scarier we are. You should quiver in your boots, Redfield. If you had any. Which you don’t. Right now.”

“I’ll quiver later.”

That earned him a quick, raw chuckle. A throaty one, a decidedly good one, and Chris had to swat away more thoughts of just how _lovely_ her back was. Even with the scars, the only things that did not belong there. There were more on this side of her spine, he’d noted, like the knotted bullet hole sat on her lower left, and the cuts on her arms. And the fresh punctures, no longer looking like she’d gotten them an hour ago, but as if they’d been there a few days already, along with the fresh stitches that he almost forgot about.

He took a deep breath, wrangled thoughts of this particular lovely back from his mind, and removed his hand from her markings.

An annoyed _purr_ of all things bubbled up her chest.

_No, Redfield._

Her head tilted back. First, he noticed the angry red line of a more recent scar. It peered up at him from where it ran dead centre up her front. The towel did a poor job at keeping it out of sight. He wondered, briefly, if she had a story to tell for that one, too. Must be a good one. He should find out.

Chris willed his eyes away, and found a curious stare levelled at him. Curious, and drowsy, half lidded and threatening to fall shut at any moment. Her pupils were dilated, turning the honey coloured iris into no more than a faint corona around the edges.

She blinked a lazy blink, and Chris hated himself.

* * *

 **T** he prowler was starving out there. It pushed. It charged. It rode greedy waves of molten rock, let them crash around her and suck the air from her lungs. But then the warm hand, that damned thing that had drained her of coherent thought as efficiently as any good blow to the head, lifted.

A tantrum of emotions howled out there, somewhere, and the prowler retreated.

Sadja didn’t care much. She cared, however, about the spot of cold at her back, and she liked it none. Her befuddled mind told her to lean her head back. So she did. She found a muddy blue stare there.

 _WHAM_ her gates went and shuddered.

 _Welcome back,_ she wanted to tell the prowler, but then she had to turn her attention to that yawn again, the one that wanted to spring her jaws lose. That, she thought, would be rude. Yawning in someones face. No matter where you were, and no matter the social situation of things, you did _not_ go yawning at people.

By the time Sadja won the battle that she’d thought so important, Redfield had apparently dragged her up the bed. Her face was planted in a pillow. She opened her mouth slightly, snatched at it with her teeth. Why was her right arm dangling off the bed? It was cold out there. The left one wasn’t off much better, being tugged at and all. No, her hand was — no, he was trying to get the control-gadget out from between her curled fingers. Carefully, too.

A barmy, but decidedly sleepy, giggle rolled in her stomach. It had a bit of a turf war with the things that rolled around a little further down, but came out the victor. All proud and… Sadja exhaled it and got another mouthful of pillow. She opened her left hand, and the control-gadget vanished.

Behind her, the bed did its whole creaky shifty thing again. Then came a blanked. It whispered against her back. Cool, mostly, but with a hint of warmth that clung to it and had the barmy giggle tuck itself into a neat little ball ready for a good old slumber.

Sadja made one last-ditch effort not to follow. She tried to think of things that’d jolt her awake, tried to spook herself back into a world where she could keep her eyes open.

 _CREAK_ the bed went again. Then came the sound of bibs and bobs being tossed around. Click they went, and _GLUG_ and they rustled with the sound of spent wrapping being crumpled fiercely. Feet moved, stomped almost, and frustrated sighs were exchanged with the walls. Then a door fell shut behind her.

Her heart hammered out two beats of dread. He was leaving.

Then she heard said bibs and bobs clattering into the sink, and a stuttering rush of water as the shower came alive.

 _Oh, ah-right…_ the drowsy, fledgling Keeper thought, and with the next few beats of her heart, she fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter. I couldn't get myself to split it up. Sorry!
> 
> * What's a **Bell-Belly**?  
>  They're herbivore creatures native to Sadja's home. A bit like cows, I suppose, kept in herds. Their bellies are slightly shaped like bells, as the name suggestions, and it swings left and right a little. Bit like a bell would. They've also got a curious diet, gracing on things that have a chemical reaction in their gut, which can lead to very flammable gasses and burps. Hence the saying "stick a lit match down a Bell-Bellie's maw," as you might get unlucky and it gets set on fire. Boom.


	20. May appear closer..

**MAY APPEAR CLOSER…**

* * *

  **E** ye contact, that steady, heedful thing. Useful in so many ways too; To see if someone’s listening. To figure out if they care. To glean the truth, or to show affection. It can intimidate. It can lure. It can judge, and it can ask questions unspoken or tell tales untold. Hold someone locked in a stare long enough, and you might burrow into their soul. Stay trapped in it for too long yourself, and you’ll find yourself changed forever. Or at least so some would have you believe.

Sadja liked to think there was more truth to it than there was myth. After all, your typical Sare’s craft relied on their sight. Bind their blinkers shut, and they’d be as much use as tits on a bull. So who said it impossible that a good long stare could leave muddy footprints all over your soul?

And Redfield had taken to doing just that, trampling all over her, with that heavy stare of his.

 _Least he no longer judges you insane,_ she told herself. Though now as she sat there across of him, with a pile of spongy things he called _pancakes_ sitting on a plate by her left, and a steaming cup of coffee next to it, she wondered if she hadn’t preferred the blissful ignorance.

Now it was a whole lot of different things.

" _Mwhad_ ?” She asked him, still chewing on the spongy thing and butchering the _What_ right and proper.

The muddy blue stare refused to drop away. In front of him, scribbled with a blue pen on flattened out napkins, lay her clumsy attempts at drawing up what she knew about how a Sare worked their tricks. Since he’d asked again just _how_ Ansel had done it, and she’d not found enough words for it, she’d decided to put it down on paper. He’d watched her sketching it while she’d narrated each stroke, and once she’d been done and shoved it under his nose, he’d taken to fixing his eyes on her.

If he was trying to stare her down, like one dog setting the tune for the other, he’d picked the wrong sparring partner. She’d managed to stand her ground in front of the Pariah and his world devouring set of stormy eyes for half a minute. And half of a minute, that was a few heartbeats. And a few heartbeats, that was a long time. Redfield, in comparison, presented himself as a walk in the park. A park that stood very much ablaze.

Sadja washed down the _pancake_ thing with a gulp of coffee, not once letting her eyes wander.

“You asked,” she reminded him.

A noise, something distantly related to a grunt and someone’s brain cracking down the middle, rumbled up his chest. Though then he looked down, glanced at the sketch and picked the thing up.

Sadja shrugged, attacked the rest of her breakfast. Best let the man ponder life and things that lay beyond that in peace. It was a bitter enough pill to swallow, even without her harassing him. She chewed the spongy thing and let her eyes wander the place. Around them, the small noshery (or _café_ as Redfield called those things) was good as empty. Cozy though, with old sturdy furniture hewn from dark wood, and an old lady, with roots in the same year as the dead trees most like, served the five meagre patrons. She wore a puffy green dress and an almost spotless, white apron. A _TeeVee_ box hung suspended in a corner to Sadja’s left. It blabbered loudly in what Redfield called _Italian,_ a strange language by her standards. Not as harsh as what they’d spoke up in Edonia, or flat as the one in _Vienna_ , but more lively in every regard. Even when the news was grim. Which it was, of course. Because apparently grim news was about the only news ever worth showing here, and the whole deal was getting entirely depressing.

A blue banner rolled across the bottom, a red one at the top, and this time there were pictures she recognised. She remembered the cobbled streets and the sturdy buildings, with the pillars of smoke rolling between them. Pictures of dead things, and things that should be dead, but weren’t, popped in and out of the _TeeVee_ box. There were uniformed bodies too, crumbled on the ground. Trampled and torn or shot or stabbed or whatever these BeeOwwDoulbeUewws did to them.

She glanced at Redfield, with his cogs still turning slowly as he glared at the sketch. It wasn’t difficult to imagine that he’d known these men. Served with them, shoulder by shoulder, as soldiers so did. But he’d gotten out. They hadn’t. She frowned.

He still looked all raggedy, even with Edonia so far behind them. The sleeves of the simple, olive green shirt were rolled up above his elbows, and his disheveled dark hair looked in desperate need of a clip. His scratchy beard had made a full return too, untended for a morning too long since he’d been too busy getting chased through an amusement park and tending her torn back to worry about that the day after.

Sadja let her imagination get to work, replaced the beard with a neat trim, made away with the soft shirt and a centimetre of his hair, and wrapped him in the rough greens and greys of the battle uniform she’d first met him in. _’That’s more like it,’_ she thought as she armed him with things mean and dangerous and erased the scowl to replace it with focus and determination.

Not like it mattered though. Here he was, and here _she_ was. Both terribly misplaced. She’d thought, at some point, that she’d made peace with her situation and could live with, or _live out_ , whatever time she’d had left. But things never went as they should for a Shielding, did it? Apparently a Redfield wasn’t off much better.

Her eyes flitted back to the the _TeeVee_ box. The gruesome pictures were replaced with the image of a woman, her name suspended in the red banner above her.

 **Ada WONG** it said.

Something-something-suspect and **Neo Umbrella** scrolled by below. Sadja craned her neck. She was pretty. A smooth, heartshaped face, a pair of dark eyes and full sensual lips, with straight jet black hair that sat neatly against her cheeks. Ada Wong vanished from the box, and on came an entirely different scene. One that made her heart beat hard with excitement.

“Huh,” Sadja tapped at the table in front of Redfield. His eyes snapped away from the sketch, first to settle on her, then following her own stare at the _TeeVee_ . The amusement park came into focus. The vehicles from last night were there, along with Nivans and his men. Or at least she thought she’d spotted his youthful face in there somewhere as the picture wobbled all over the place.

Redfield didn’t seem to like what he saw. Not the men in their uniforms, or the ones in bright yellow that were wheeling things covered in tarp into wide metal beasties. Sadja figured Ansel was tucked away into one of them, along with the two _Sarehounds,_ dead and ready for close inspections. Though while he disapproved of them, a grunt of distaste standing witness, something entirely more vile came bearing down at him the moment the pictures flickered back to Miss Ada Wong.

Whatever it was, it stoked the flames in the furnace. Stoked them high and violent, had her gates catch fire. _She_ caught fire. And for three hurried heartbeats, Sadja hated the woman. She _loathed_ the sensual curve of her lips, the smooth, alabaster skin, and the contrast of the jet-black hair against it. An almost unbearable urge to end the woman right then and there trapped a boiling breath in her lungs.

Her world dissolved with the need for retribution, with vengeance pumping hot and cold through her veins.

_Reaper take you, Redfield…_

She breathed out his hatred. The man himself didn’t let the turmoil show. His jaw clenched and his brow furrowed, but then he wrapped her sketch up and waved it towards the door.

“Let’s bail,” he told her.

No room for argument there. She ditched the remains of the spongy goodness (it’d taste horrible anyway, with her throat burnt and scorched) and hurried after the furnace as he retreated from the scene.

* * *

“ **N** o, Sir…” - _…for the third frigging time now._

Piers squeezed the phone between his shoulder and ear. He would have preferred _”Yes, Sir. We know what happened.”_ and _”Of course, Sir. Nothing to worry about.”_ and most definitely _”Yes, Sir. We found him.”_ But all he had was _No_ . Empty handed, once again.

Too late.

If they’d only been a little faster, gotten off the airfield _five_ minutes earlier. He clenched his jaw, grabbed onto the Humvee’s doorframe, and turned to face the buzz of activity against the backdrop of an otherwise idyllic early spring morning. The blood had still been wet, the bodies still warm. A fresh trail had led them right to them, red splatters on the concrete ending at three _Unknowns_ lying in the sawdust.

_Five minutes. Five fucking minutes._

That’s all it might have taken. He watched a Terra Save agent’s back and forth with one of their B.S.A.A technicians as they loaded the last of the bodies into the waiting trucks. But _almost_ getting here on time meant jack squat. Too late was too late. His supervisor’s voice quipped though the phone, had him grind his teeth together. He wanted to tell him to shut up, to can the congratulations that were in there somewhere, because there was nothing to commend him for. As far as Piers was concerned, this was a failure, not a success. He’d come here to bring back Chris Redfield, not contain some _situation_ that no one knew even existed.

Sure, he’d made the B.S.A.A lab rats squeal with glee. Thanks to him, they had something new and exciting to sink their needles and drills (and whatever the fuck else they prodded and poked shit with) into. But him?

Piers didn’t get it. He didn’t _want_ to get it. All he _wanted_ was things to be put together as they’d been before. He wanted his CO back where he belonged, not out _there_. Doing God knows what. With God knows who. For God knows whatever reasons. Whether he’d just snapped, or fallen to PTSD induced amnesia, as Piers sincerely hoped, didn’t matter.

“I’ll keep you up to date, Sir. We’ll be shipping back by the end of the day. Yes. Yes Sir. No, I won’t let up.”

He dropped the phone from his shoulder and caught it halfway down his chest. Of course he wouldn’t let up. Who the hell did they think he was? Where he lost sleep, others patted him on the back for his efforts. Where he shot halfway across Europe on the slightest chance of a break, others focused their efforts on their own issues, or, as Piers thought, sat idly by. Even Chris’s own _sister_ had resorted to providing resources, rather than her own energy. And Jill was off doing her own thing, rather than trying to chase down her old partner who’d spent a good part of two years of his life searching for her.

Who had their priorities right and who should be re-evaluating them wasn’t any of Piers’s business, but he wasn’t about to let that stop him from judging them. Quietly. Didn’t want to mess with those ladies, they were both equally scary.

Piers rested his arms on the steering wheel. He couldn’t blame them, really. This was a goose chase. If Chris didn’t want to be found, then Chris didn’t want to be found. That Piers chose not to care, that was _his_ problem. But this? The bodies? Four mysteries in need of solving? Four things that didn’t fit into any of the B.S.A.A’s numerous drawers? Those four weren’t something he had to concern himself with, instead they were someone else business to sort out, even though they seemed to come packaged with his chase across Europe.

He squinted against the sun finally cresting the white-capped mountains.

And just _why_ was Chris Redfield tied up with it? Now that was simple enough; _Her_. Whoever the fuck she was, she was trouble, and the next time he saw her, Piers vowed, he’d be taking her down. One way or the other. Because maybe, just maybe, he’d stop running then, and they could sort this out. Get the man some help. Fit him back where he belonged.

“Dammit Captain, where are you?”

He said the words aloud, just as the passenger door opened and his eyes flicked to the side, regarding the tired features of Emma climbing in after him. Despite himself, Piers found himself smiling, the curl of his lips breaking the strained frowned he'd worn through his call with HQ. A comforting warmth seized his chest, reminded him that no, he wasn’t doing this alone, even if it sometimes felt like it. He had her. Had her tirelessly following him, putting up with his bullshit day in and day out. He just hoped he'd not lose her somewhere down the line, because at this point he didn't know if he could do this without her. 

* * *

“ **W** here we going, Redfield?”

Chris heard the question. It pecked at the anger, picking away at the rage that had him hold onto the steering wheel with a white knuckled grip. Half an hour on the road, and the rage boiled on. He couldn’t place it, couldn’t quantify where it had come from. Or so he wanted to tell himself. A lie, he knew. Except knowing the truth didn’t help either. That woman, that stranger on the grainy old TV screen above the café counter. Her pretty face had come with a noose, and that noose had, without a word of warning, wound itself tight around his neck.

“I’m hoping there’s a beach there,” she said. Her voice tugged at the noose. His burden was a persistent one, he had to admit.

Chris glanced up at the rearview mirror. The pair of honey coloured eyes peered back at him. Then his seat gave a jolt and she pulled herself forward. He caught a whiff of hotel soap as she leaned between the seats and reached for the radio. Today she’d decided to wear a too wide, blue shirt that looped low around her neck and gave him a good look at the markings dipping away from her nape. He snapped his eyes back to the road.

Wild chatter rambled from the radio, all Italian, all entirely useless, and she kept flipping through the stations in her search for whatever floated her boat today. Rock again, he figured. Like any other day. Or hour. Though as long as she didn’t start singing, he’d be fine with whatever she picked.

He looked down, at the curious burden in her quest for rock. She muttered illegible things under her breath and ignored him as he finally managed to tear a hand away from the wheel, and gingerly lifted the neckline of her shirt. Irritated red skin lined the knots of his stitches. Though aside of that, the wound looked almost closed. Like he’d taken the needle there a week ago, not last night.

Sadja clicked her tongue.

“Eyes, Redfield,” she chided him when he found himself tracking her markings, following the bolts as they dove out of sight. “Shouldn’t you be looking at the road?”

“I am,” he lied.

“You’re not,” she challenged with a light-hearted growl. It swiped the noose right off his neck. Chris frowned, turned his eyes up front, and moved his hand back to the steering wheel.

A moment later she finally landed what she’d wanted. _Sweet Child of Mine_ cried from the speakers, and with a twist of her back this way and that, the curious burden drummed her way into the back again.

Chris sighed, lowered the volume, and earned himself a violently shaking seat.

“When will you start being fun?” She accused. He heard her shuffle around in the back and risked a glance through the rearview mirror. A mess of papers were scattered over the leather, and she snatched one of them up. Once again his seat bucked and she dragged herself forward to rest one hand on his left shoulder. Again, Chris frowned. Then she stuck her head out next to him and rested her chin on his right shoulder. Another nose full of hotel soap shoved the remnants of his anger aside. Or maybe it was the strange scent of the curious burden. He frowned. Yeah. She even _smelled_ out of place. Smelled of things that didn’t _belong_. Things dangerous, barefoot and carefree.

Her right arm looped around him. A sheet of paper came with it, and Chris let her dangle it in front of him while he sorted stray thoughts of lovely backs and strange scents tickling at his nose around in his head. They were better than the anger. No less distracting, but better.

“What is it?” He eventually asked, grabbed it, and folded it out on the steering wheel.

“This is a _Reaper_ ,” she educated him.

_What?_

He squinted at the pencil drawing. It was impressive, especially considering she’d only been working on it for twenty minutes. And it was just as otherworldly as the things she filled the air with, and every single word she’d said last night. Rushed lines, blurred and smudged in places, but all with skillful purpose, depicted a bridge. That bridge, wide at the end where it connected with the rocky edge of a cliff, and narrowing as it led across whatever gulch it covered, served as the perch for a winged beast. A dragon, of all things. Plucked right from fantastic tales and movies, with wings spread to its side as it crouched, ready to leap. The body lacked detail, having only been graced with hasty shading and a few hints at feathers lining gnarly bone or muscle pushing against skin, but its thick neck with the scaled head had received more attention. Its neck was coiled. Feathers, ruffled, he figured by how she’d made them stick out, lined it in a thick layer. The imposing head on the thing was all scales, feathers and a line of sharp teeth bared faintly as it seemed to grin cheekily at him from the paper. Cheeky grin or not, Chris thought it looked threatening enough. Especially with the large claws digging into the edge of the bridge. She’d even added a few bits of rock tumbling off into the depths.

A dragon. Chris blinked.

“Want more?” she squeezed herself back into his skull, her voice suddenly quite clear and all too close right by his ear.

He turned to look at her, caught the tail end of another quick smile, and a challenging twinkle in those damned eyes. Then he glanced at the rearview mirror to watch the road fall away behind them. Way back there, somewhere, stood the amusement park. Way back there, somewhere, were all the motels and hotels and the dumps they’d left behind since they’d left Edonia.

Way back there were things he didn’t want anywhere near him. Things he didn’t want to think about, know about. Things that wrapped a noose around his neck and clouded his mind with unpleasantries so thick they suffocated him. And whenever he thought he found a way through….

“Yeah,” Chris told her, tore his eyes from the mirror and back onto the road ahead, and stopped picking at the roiling fog in his mind. “Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are. End of Part 3. Editing the last chapter for this section reminded me how much I'm still in love with it. I never want it to end :D
> 
> Might have also noticed the mention of a new name. Emma. Well, she's not my character, she belongs to my good friend, and I just couldn't leave her out of this. Her and Piers are amazing together.


	21. Part 4: Day 51

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Chris Redfield commits yet _another_ terrible sin, because the man just can't behave these days. And Sadja wonders what happens to those who die young.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. Hi. 'sup? We've got a short interlude with Sinvik at the beginning here again, something important she's got to tell. And then we're right back in with Redfield, that cheeky skunk.

**Part 4: Day 51**

**INTERMISSION: Sinvik**

* * *

**A** turn passes, and then another, and halfway through the next the Pariah brings me hope. It comes packaged neatly, with curly light hair and a pair of wide, green eyes, and it shakes with fear as it sits in front of me, sends Elaya’s hem aflutter and lines my tongue with an acrid taste.

“Who is this?” I ask, fold my arms in front of me to ward off a shiver nipping at my soul. “And why’s he missing an ear?”

He likely misses more than that, judging by how he shrinks in on himself as I speak, and leans his head away from me like he feels ashamed for the bloody stump where once there’d sat an earlobe. His frantic, wide eyes cut to the Pariah standing next to him, and the pink tip of his tongue darts across his lip, desperate and nervous.

“Come on, introduce yourself,” Nathric chides, his boot nudging the unfortunate man’s leg.

“Hayn! Hayn, my lordship— ladyship— Keeper, Cara’sia— oh _sogenerou—”_ Nathric scoffs and his hand comes down, swats once against the back of Hayn’s head, silencing the stream of words.

My stomach had already been in a sorry state when I’d stepped into the room, but now it feels like I’d eaten a bowl of worms, swallowed them whole just so I could have them squirm about in my gut. The Pariah. That bloody man. What's he done this time? As if I didn’t have enough trouble on my mind, what with Sadja missing ( _Dead. Dying._ ), the Nightingale on about another scheme of hers, and the Ward not playing nice and stirring things that didn’t need stirring. Now he slinks back into my life when I didn’t ( _Most._ ) need him, drags with him his wicked ways, and reminds me why he stands for nothing but trouble and unending hurt.

So I look at him and frown, which earns me a misaligned tilt of his brow, like he can’t quite believe I’d not be okay with him torturing a man in my very own house.

“He’s one of Gale’s Augurs,” he states plainly after a moment of tense silence stretching the air thin between us.

I swallow. My fingers twitch. There might be a noise of sorts coming up my throat— and whatever noise it is, it terrifies Hayn, because the man blanches a ghastly grey.

“Cara’sia—” he starts, but there comes Nathric’s flat hand again, _SMACK_ against the top of his head.

“Go on. Tell her.”

My eyes fall to the unfortunate soul.

“The Nightingale, she’s found your Fledgling,” he starts and I nod sharply, because I already know that, and it irks me something fierce that I _know,_ but can't do a bloody thing about it. “She’s sent men after her, Ansel the Purple and Torrian Thunderstep, and vil Marrk, and—”

“Vil Marrk?” I interrupt. “Augustus vil Marrk?”

Hayn’s head bobs frantically, and I look to Nathric.

“But he’s dead,” I tell the Pariah, who shrugs and states the obvious.

“She must have lied to you.”

Sadja. Lied. To _me._ I smile a little at the thought, feel a little proud that she might have managed just that, but it's a short lived smile, because with Augustus at her tail…

“Go on,” the Pariah urges, and Hayn complies with his mouth moving fast, tongue tripping over itself as he speak.

“She’s bargained with him. Your Fledgling’s life for the broken part of her— but I don’t know what this means, I swear, Cara’sia, I swear. I don’t know, but that’s what she said, and I swear I don’t know more—”

_SMACK_

He wheezes and he coughs and there's blood on his lips now and thick tears in his eyes.

“Stop.” My voice tilts awkwardly, because while the unfortunate Hayn is left knowing nothing, _I_ know what it means, and the implication of it terrifies me. It means Gale had figured it out. She’d sniffed out the splintered, broken half of Sadja, that part of her which we’d taken to simply labelling _beast,_ the part born from grief, marred and damaged and Elaya have mercy— strong.

Stronger than her by far. Stronger than me, most like, if left to its own devices. She’d learned how to contain it. Not control, because that had always been out of the question, but at least it no longer romps about the place on its own and tears up whatever it bloody well wants to.

Gale knowing about it, Gale _wanting_ it? I groan, raise my arms and lace my fingers behind my head.

That means it has value. That means trouble. That means I can't let Gale have it.

It means my Fledgling has to die.

Even if I’d thought maybe, just maybe— she’s got herself a second chance.

No. It meant my Sadja, my dear lovely girl, she has to die.

 

**YOURS TRULY…**

* * *

 

❛ _**R** ight, I am dying._ ❜  

A single line. Four words. They sat there, lonely, a scribble on the top half of a weathered page. The writing was unmistakably hers, since Chris recognised the delicate script, just like the one on the note she’d left sitting on a pile of fresh clothing an eternity of hazy memories ago.

_A month ago. No, longer._

He pinched the bridge of his nose, made an effort to count the days, to pick apart the blur and figure out how many had just run together between drink and smoke and pounding hangovers, and which ones had simply been flushed from his mind, forever forgotten. When that didn’t seem to do him much good, he dropped his hand again and let his finger ride up and down the side of the journal that lay open on the steering wheel.

 _You’re going to hell for this, Redfield,_ he chided himself. For this, and a wide array of other damning reasons, but who was keeping score these days. Not him. Or at least he tried not to, since the tally was stacking up against him and burying him in a pile of sin. Chris slipped a finger beneath the first page.

The paper was thin, but felt sturdy and pliant, altogether not feeling much like paper. Or maybe, just maybe, he told himself, he was imagining that. Just like he’d imagined this one particular journal, one of the altogether four she kept squirrelled away in her backpack, was out of place. Like it was odd. Like it had come with her. Misplaced. Like her. The cover, fine grained leather, well worn and dyed a dirty orange, had stared at him from the open pack, and it had proclaimed itself _odd,_ and told him he better go investigate.

At the end of the day it was just a journal. Front-cover, back-cover and pages in-between. But he’d had to take a look, no questions asked, and damned be the consequences.

Step one had been to pick the journal from her backpack, ignoring the telltale squeeze his chest gave (the one that proclaimed you were about to commit a sin). Step two of the crime had been to place it out in front of him, like some priced archaeological find. And much like you’d treat an age old artefact, he’d been gentle with the thing, in particular when he’d unwrapped the black string keeping it from spilling its secrets right then and there.

And here he sat, tried to remember what he’d expected when he’d opened it up. For lightning to strike him, maybe. Those four words though? No. Not really.

❛ _Right, I am dying._ ❜

He lifted his eyes, not quite yet willing to flip the page, and looked out the windshield and across the red hood of the car. She wasn’t looking, was she? No, his curious burden was a few yards down the gentle, green slope, hovering just at the edge of a throng of people gathered by the western edge of the amphitheater. _(“Whats that?” Honey coloured eyes caught the sheet of paper pinned by the windshield wiper of their ride. “An advertisement.” — “Adverti-ferwhat?” — “A music festival.” — “Oh. So they play music there?” — “No.” — “Redfield.” — “Yes…”)_ It was an old theatre, though not a ruin by far. The age old stone backdrop had been renovated, the crescent lines of low seats falling away towards the centre refurbished. Some of the old pillars cropping up from the already lush February grassland had been left in a state of what Chris thought was very much intended disrepair. A few of them missed their top halves, and two lay across the ground, collapsed. Right now the toppled ones served as perches for adventurous onlookers, or maybe the cool kids. He wasn’t entirely quite sure how that worked these days. Of course the rest of the place had been properly modernised, wired up, and fully equipped with massive speakers and whatever else that scrawny looking group of young men down there at the bottom needed. The speakers were thumping away at the air with the current group’s performance, and long forgotten was whatever entertainment this place had originally been built for.

Chris frowned as he watched Sadja skirt the colourful collection of people. Her hands were tucked away in the front pouch of her cognac sweater, and her shoulders pulled together, ill at ease with nothing in particular at all, or so he thought. Aside of the tension, she blended in perfectly down there, with her new pair of dark jeans and the same boots she’d kicked up sawdust with eleven days ago.

And no, she definitely wasn’t looking.

He flipped the page.

❛ _You get to thinking,_ ❜ it started. ❛ _—with Elaya perched on your shoulder, warbling away her judgement as she wants to see you off to Lady Death. What have you done? What have you gained? What lost? What wrongs lie in your wake? What_ good _rides ahead of you? What have you run from, and what have you run to?_

 _It all comes back to you. With no future to dream of, the past is all that’s left; There’s no more “Where will I be and_ what _will I be”, but where have I been, and what have I turned into?_

 _Don’t get me wrong, this fledgling Keeper never lived much in the_ when _. Hardly thought much of tomorrow at all, except what I might be having for breakfast. I always found it difficult to fret over the coming morning. Even later, when I had a purpose other than to please the Ward, when things I did and didn’t seemingly began to matter, I still didn’t much care. I— no, we, Sinvik and I —we had Trindram for that. He’d dedicated his life to planning, and he’d inform us of how our choice of eggs come sunrise might affect the itch betwixt some Knight Lords ballsack and his arse. And then he expects me to care too. They all do._ ❜ — the writing was interrupted by a sketch, half his thumb big maybe, of a bloated and frustrated looking man doing… what? Vigorously scratching his ass? Chris arched an eyebrow. ❛ _Did._ ❜ she continued. Though only briefly. ❛ _Did expect. Should get used to that._ ❜

Chris let himself sink into the by now all too familiar seat of the car and tapped his fingers against the journal. ‘ _Stop_ ,’ he told himself, but then he looked up, caught her sizing up a tall young man who’d turned to face her. Come-get-me, her posture screamed. Her arms were tightly squeezed together, hands still tucked away and her chin tilted up just ever so slightly. A challenge, not a come-hither, Chris thought. Bleeding mistrust, expecting violence, but only finding curiosity.

He glanced to the passenger seat, where she left that _barr_ -thing of hers. Scarf or shemagh his ass. Of course it wasn’t that simple. From where he was looking at it, that neatly folded thing looked perfectly _normal_. But when she’d explained what it did ( _”Binds my soul, keeps it all tethered and behaved.” — “It does.. what?” — “Well, Redfield, see—“_ ), he’d washed down her words with a shot of _Schnapps_ and then added a second one just to make sure it all digested right. From then on it had made a little more sense, how her spine seemed a lot straighter whenever she _didn’t_ have that thing on her, how she appeared more alert and aware. That, and a whole lot more on edge. And when the thing got back around her neck, her shoulders gave a little roll and you could almost feel the tension fall away from her.

Though she _liked_ to feel things, she’d told him. Especially here. Where everyone was simple.

_Simple._

Now there was a word she used freely and in abundance when reflecting on what _he_ thought to be an entirely unpleasant and complicated place.

Chris had asked her just _what_ she felt, not really having considered the question much. Her mouth had worked on an answer for it, tried once, then twice, before she’d sighed and told him to fill up his glass again. This one wasn’t about to be answered at this table, apparently. Fair enough.

❛ _Someone sent the Silent._ ❜ — he read on after turning to the next page — ❛ _Three of them stood by my door. Sinvik refused them entrance, clicked her tongue at them and folded her arms, a glower in her eyes. Those fucking scavengers. Come to take my words, my secrets. My vows and my conviction and the sins they want to burry._ ** _Fuck them_** ❜ — the pencil had pressed down hard, with its tip breaking off down along the end of the _m_ if he was to make a guess — ❛ _Screamed at them. Told them I’d get a Reaper to chomp their heads off if they didn’t hike home. Could be Sinvik didn’t like that much. Could be she called me childish. Could be I told her she’s a useless cunt. Could be I cried too, and that she left me to it._

 _Stupid Keeper._ ❜

Four slips of paper slid from the journal. Chris caught them before they could flutter onto his lap, and kept reading.

❜ _Finished almost all the letters. Was the Pariah’s idea, so I gave them to him. He scowled at me, and then at the pathetic pile, and I swear for once that ageless madman looked a little pale. Well, fuck you, mate. You make me write down words of goodbye, you bloody deal with them. Elaya knows I don’t want any of that. He took them, because what choice does he have. Told him twice too that he’d have to read the one for Trindram. Read it good, read it proper. Use_ my _words, not his, since his, they’re all wrong for this. He didn’t like that at all._ ❜

He looked across the hood of the car again. Sadja had, in the meantime, found herself to be the centre of attention of three young men, along with a woman with bright, green hair. A lively conversation bounced between them, with the out-of-place Sadja swept along whether she wanted to or not. Though judging by the quick succession of fleeting smiles that came and went and came and went and came and went again, she was— her eyes cut up the slope, pinned him where he sat with one hand on the journal, the other holding on to the wayward slips of paper.

Chris held his breath.

The heavy threat of being caught red handed squeezed his chest. An entirely unfounded worry, since she was oblivious to his crime. She lifted her left hand in a quick mock salute, accepted his curt nod in return, and went right back to whatever it was she was doing down there. Spinning wild tales, probably. Maybe she’d make friends. Friends willing to take her off his hands.

He frowned and glanced at the slips of paper. They were folded, and he got his thumb into one of them and flicked it open.  

❜ _Vik,_ ❜

One word. A name, Chris figured. The tail-end of _Sinvik_ if he was to hazard a guess. Nothing else adorned the page, so he turned his attention to the next one.

❜ _Vik,_

 _You’ve got this thing for picking your moments. Is that a Keeper thing? Something I should pick up on? Like you’re in the know, each and every fucking time. Because when I couldn’t be wanting to see your face less, then you’re there, lounging in some doorway. Or tucked in a shadow where I can’t get a look, but you’re a whiff in the air, a ghost at my neck. When I want you no-where near, you’re here. When_ ❜

Same name. More words. But not quite there yet. His brow furrowed, and Chris hesitated before moving on to the next slip.

❜ _Keeper Shielding,_

 _Da taught me to be grateful and to show it. To be all proper about it, give my gratitude to those deserving. You’ve come to earn it, for doing your best, every bloody minute, to make me the worst I can be. If you hadn’t, I_ ❜

Again she’d trailed off. This time though she’d filled the blank space with a doodle of two girls sitting with their foreheads touching and hands grasped between them. Chris tugged the paper away, and with his heart feeling heavier than it should, read the last one too.

❜ _Sinvik,_

 _I’ll always love you._ ❜

Alright. Chris placed the loose sheets back where they’d come from and snapped the journal shut. _That’s enough._

He rolled down the window, let in the air vibrating with simple guitar riffs, pressed hard by drums. The breaking voice of a man, screaming for someone to hold his hand, swept in along with it.

_But what’s she dying from?_

Chris fumbled for a cigarette from its box, wedged in front of the gearshift.

_Why not just ask her?_

Why hadn’t he already? He lit the thing, took one long drag, and looked down the slope at his burden dancing circles around the green haired girl. So she couldn’t sing, big deal. She could move though, and from where he sat she made it look like she’d been built for the sole purpose of this one dance, assembled entirely of one very convincing hip connecting long, nimble legs, and putting it all to perfect use.

Yet...

Always _yet._ Always _something_. Chris blinked. He didn’t know the first thing about dancing, had never bothered with it. But even so he could see how her rhythm was off. It didn’t fit the music, not really. Didn’t fit the company, no matter how much the green haired girl seemed entranced by each weave and step, and how she followed it in kind. No, Sadja’s dance looked made for different tunes, learned to a different beat entirely. But damn did it fit her well…

Another drag, and he wondered:  _What if she has something to say about you?_

He sighed and glanced down at the steering wheel, only to find the damned journal already open again.

❜ _not a big mystery to any Sare. The Wasting, the Marked Wasting. The Sare’s bane, but for many considered a cure to the world, meant to rid their towns of those Marked. Though it’s rare enough. And when it does rear its filthy head somewhere, the Ward is on it quick and proper. Ha! ’s all backwards. The Ward, come to save us, to weed out the bad crops so their good ones don’t get spoiled._

_There’s stories of the times when they didn’t do things right, like that one time a whole garrison was stricken off the map, all Sare taken by the Wasting while the Ward Knights stood outside, having their teas and contemplating the shine on their horse’s buttocks. Then they marched right in and purged the place, put the whole lot of Sare to the blade and then burned the place to the ground. They would have buried it under a mountain if they could, ‘cause no one’s any the wiser still where it bloody comes from, why it bloody does what it does, and how one’s meant to go about preventing it._

_That last detail I’d love to know. Everyone and their dog knows what it does, of course. It’s right up there with “_ A Reaper ’s gonna pluck you from your bed and take you to Hell if you don’t behave, you cheeky little brat. _”_

_First, you’ll go blind, they tell you. Won’t matter what, your blinkers will be what goes first. Then the world ‘ll go mute while your ears fall deaf. Soon you won’t be walking any more either, and then things ‘ll stop working one by one, ‘till all that’s left is your beating heart. That’ll stop too, of course, but it’ll stop last._

_And it’s not like you know when any of that’s going to happen. Could be you’ll be just fine for a few more years, living on time borrowed. Or could be you’ll go blind and then spend a few weeks bumbling about the dark, waiting for it to come take the rest of you. Sometimes though it comes and shuts you down all at once. Now that, that’s something I’d prefer to not fuckin_ ❜

Chris frowned as she’d left off mid sentence and abandoned the rest of the page.

He remembered that one night when he’d found her lying on the floor of a nightclub entrance hall. Back then he’d thought she’d— he took a puff from his cigarette. What? Had just fallen over for no good reason? Passed out from nothing in particular? Then she’d dodged his questions while she sat on the hotel bed, all the while nibbling at a bottle of beer he’d handed her, and then he’d given up and discarded it all as yet another case of _Not your problem, Redfield._

So, was this it? Couldn’t be. Could it? She’d be dead then.

He looked up, though the pale blue smoke of his cigarette, and against the slowly setting sun that seemed eager to set the scene for the crowd as it crept behind the amphitheater. Not dead, no. Still dancing though. Still having fun.

Chris grunted, flipped to the next page, and skimmed through the journal. Skimming, maybe that wasn’t as bad as attentively _reading_. From here on out it made little sense anyway, whether he’d be going word by word or not. Her writing turned to the eccentric, for the lack of a better word. Sentences became words. Words shifted to curses. Curses to pleas. Pleas to accusations. Names mixed themselves into the mess, repeated ever so often as they came with words of regret, or those of rage. _Ceat_ , that was one she repeated often, and it was wrapped in words that leaked guilt and grief from the pages. _Augustus_ she addressed as well, or rather mocked, like she thought it hilarious that she’d die, and that Augustus should go _suck on that_.

Then came the rambling. A woman mad with her struggle against a future she couldn’t change. Or, more to the point, a future she was being denied. He picked themes from the fragments. Not like the were difficult to miss. Words that ran together to _family_ , for one, they stood out loud and clear, screaming up at him from between the _Sorry_ and the _Forgive me_.

Chris took a long drag from his cigarette, and pulled today's morning from his memory.

It had started well enough, following a pattern that they’d silently agreed to. Sit down. Slide the paper, the one he’d picked up from his daily visit to the tobacco store, across the table to her. Receive two pages of pencil sketches in return. Order breakfast, and watch her start at the back of the paper, reading the comic strips out loud to him. When she’d gotten done with that and began making her way through the rest of the paper, coffee cup weaving in and out, he’d started asking her questions about the drawings. This one had been of that bridge again, the one that reached across a chasm hugging a quiet sea. A bay, she said. It was a bay. A long and narrow bay that would flow into a city. The _Gated City_ she called it. It was built inside a canyon, and the bay pushed up against said gates, protecting the bottom feeders from having themselves swept away by the water. That bridge held some significance, and she’d been about to tell him, when her words became erratic. Her focus lost, Sadja had fallen silent. She’d dropped a hand to curl into her shirt at her stomach, and simply sat there, staring at what was left of her breakfast. Back at the café he’d thought it had been the memory of home that had done it. He’d disregarded the family that stood by their table while they ordered food from the counter, though now he knew better. All it had taken to throw her into disarray was a mother, a father, and a little boy clinging to both their hands.

She’d withdrawn for hours after that. Avoided questions. Avoided jabs. Then she’d found the paper wedged against their windshield, and Chris had decided that a terrible lineup of fledgling new-age rock bands was a small evil to bear if it meant she’d… she’d what? Cheer up again?

Chris refocused on the words in her journal, how they asked for forgiveness and a manner of peace. Or did she deserve neither, she asked. Was that it? Had she done this to herself, sealed her own fate when she’d sided with the Keeper (whatever that meant)? Or had she doomed herself when she’d killed her husband?

Chris almost choked on a puff of smoke. _Shit. What?_

She’d done what now?

Wait, she’d been married? _Focus…_

He caught a few clean breaths of air and sorted his thoughts. A dead husband. Must be that _Ceat_ she kept asking to forgive her. A strong reaction to the sight of family. Not just regret that she’d been denied it. But lost it. And an involuntary grasp to her abdomen, where she carried an ugly scar, one that met with its mirror at her back.

Chris wanted to believe that he was putting one and two together and adding them up to an exaggerated ten, instead of an ordinary two.

_Should not have read her journal._

He sighed and read on.

_And here you go again. What’s wrong with you, Redfield?_

Her wishing for forgiveness broke off to plead for fairness.

But death did not deal in fairness, did it? It didn’t care if you deserved it, or were blatantly mediocre and of no consequence. No. Death was a lot of things. Fair was not one of them.

Chris frowned. Tightly wound anger squeezed his lungs, and called that damned noose (‘ _Fucking thing.’_ ) to come tug at his neck. He’d have liked to convince himself it was for her. Sympathy. But it drifted from the thick fog in his mind and reminded him that he shouldn’t be sitting here, idly letting the world tick on. Frustrated, Chris flipped past a page that she’d scribbled **Tenacity** on a few times. Mad with grief indeed.

Though then the madness fell away, and gave way to a woman misplaced in the cold. The words turned back to order, to sentences that you didn’t need to put your own creativity to work for, and documented her first few days lost amidst strange things she couldn’t put names to.

Chris would have liked to slow down then, put his mind to the task of reading again, but a whisper of wind from the open window ruined that. The neglected ash stump of his cigarette crumbled and dropped right onto the journal.

“Fuck…”

He scrambled to shake the ash off and puffed at it for good measure. Once convinced that he’d cleaned it up alright, Chris chanced a look out the window again.

No Sadja.

His brow furrowed.

She’d just been there, hadn’t she?

And so what? Chris didn’t like how the noose gave another tug. She’d be back. Wouldn’t she?

“Vik always said I make a terrible wordsmith.”

He’d not liked the noose, no. But he liked the way his heart decided to crawl into his throat at the sound of her voice even less.

“Not enough respect, she said, since you’re supposed to respect words or some other nonsense like that. Said I butcher them more offn’ than not.”

Chris could hear the accusation in there, _somewhere_ , right next to the melodic delight. He glanced left. She leaned through the window, honey coloured eyes dark with a set of dilated pupils. Her left hand darted forward, snatched the remains of the cigarette from his fingers, and flicked it over her shoulder.

“So,” she challenged. “What’s the verdict? Kooky tit, or tragic damsel?”

“You could have told me.”

“Told you that I’ve got myself dying?”

Her _I_ s rolled into those damned _Ah_ s again, and her lips twitched with yet another fleeting smirk. He’d expected anger. Or distress, now that he sat there with her memories right out in the open. They were in there, somewhere, he knew. And they’d come crawling back to the light of day soon enough, leave her a quiet, broken husk that withered away in the passenger seat. Well, at least _that_ made sense now, nevermind the rest.

Chris nodded. She breathed out a throaty chuckle in response and pushed herself away from the door.

“Tssk,” she hissed and clicked her tongue. “Details. Not important.”

And around the hood of the car she went, hips still moving with the rhythm of the music that rolled up the slope.

Dying.

What a detail to leave out. And try your hardest to dismiss. Chris folded the journal up, placed it on the passenger seat. She picked it up a moment later as she sunk into her corner of the car. Then she tossed it into the back and turned to look at him.

“Where we going, Redfield?”

Chris shook his head. He threw the car into gear, keyed the ignition, and backed them across the grass. Dying, but defiant. Defiant against the world that wanted to end her, like when she’d killed those two thugs at the loft. Or fought Ansel and his Reapers, with nothing but a pitchfork and her attitude to arm herself with. Damned be the odds, apparently. She’d meet what she could head on, a quick smile at the ready for those who doubted her.

But there wasn’t any fighting _this_ , was there?

***

 **S** adja felt herself tear away from the chaotic din of souls collected inside the basin of wild music and sizzling hot bodies. Greedy tendrils of her own hungry self tried to latch onto whatever she could grasp, while the metal beastie rolled farther and farther away. Soon those snapped too, and left her feeling positively tingly with the residue high the delicious cocktail of souls back there had sent her to. This time she hadn’t gotten herself chased away by the blizzard that was the impossible Ceat, or blindsided by the Wasting coming to claim her. No, this time she’d walked only once the sun slipped away, and a persistent spring chill had begun to settle. Worse, her stomach had reminded her that she’d not eaten anything since she’d left a half finished breakfast behind so many hours ago, and it was positively starving.

That she’d found Redfield elbow deep in her secrets, now that had come as a surprise.

Maybe, if she hadn’t stood there with her own mind scattered to the winds, she would have gotten angry. The beast certainly howled its disapproval and knocked its shoulder into the cage, but then she’d felt the _dread_ as the furnace looked up at her, and the howling had turned into a barmy giggle.

_That’s penance enough for you. We might revisit this later, you cheeky bastard, but tonight you’re good._

She watched him while he put them back onto the road and followed whatever way he’d plotted out in his head right when he woke up. Or she liked to think each day. Though he did seem distracted. Not quite there, lost in his messed up noggin. That, and a little bit guilty still. Sadja decided getting singed wouldn’t be so bad and took a sniff over her gates, where she found the furnace burning surprisingly low.

“Hm,” she hummed, and he looked at her briefly before turning his attention back to the road, which had begun to wind itself through the rolling hills of this here Italy.

“What?” Redfield asked after a few heartbeats of silence. The metal beasties purr did little to fill the void.

“You’ve got no questions?” He should have plenty, all depending on how far he’d gotten through the mad scribbles of yours truly. And what dots he’d connected, or what lines he’d drawn.

A short lived laugh made it halfway up his throat. He left it at that though.

“Why not ask them then?” _Yeh, why not Redfield. Come on, spit ‘em out._

“Because I would prefer not to have my head bitten off tonight.”

“Huh. You’ve got a point there, Redfield. I’m starving.” She leaned forward, popped open the glove compartment, and found a bag of peanuts. A good as empty bag of peanuts, since all that was left were shells. Vexed by the bags insolence of being utterly useless, Sadja turned to look at him again. “Maybe you should find me something to eat then, because you’re beginning to look mighty delicious.”

The furnace flared and, much to her amusement, the prowler came to pay his respects too. It didn’t stick around, and while Redfield opened and closed his hands around the steering wheel and exhaled an annoyed puff of air, the curious thing dove back for cover.

“Don’t,” he growled.

Sadja let out a mock grunt of disappointment and unwound herself in her seat. “Spoilsport,” she declared while stretching her limbs and allowing the lingering tingle from before to fade.

Redfield nodded at her statement, not ashamed of being a responsible adult in the face of her threat. Though then he grew desperate to put something else between them than only empty air, or so Sadja liked to believe, and flicked on the radio. A gentle tune filled the metal beastie’s belly and she let herself sink into the leather seats even more. She looked to her right, where the setting sun played a game of peek-a-boo, as hills, crops of trees and houses rolled by.

Yeah, just what secrets was he now privy to? Could _she_ even remember it all? Some of it she’d written while all out of sorts. Or in a sort of state. Whatever you’d like to call it. Sadja breathed out the irritation climbing the back of her throat. The gentle tune died away, and a man started rambling on about things she figured she wouldn’t care much for even if she understood it. Then he shut up too, and a girl sang about what they should be doing with her should she die young.

Next to her, the furnace flared brightly. She craned her neck to look at him and caught him hastily reaching for the radio.

“Tssk!” Sadja hissed. She sat up and slapped at his hand before he could silence the woman with her wish to be _sunk into a river at dawn_. Turned out he was persistent though, and when he made another attempt to kill the radio, Sadja grabbed his wrist, keeping the radio’s knobs just out of reach.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She accused him. He stared at her, long as he dared anyway, with the road still doing its weaving this way and that. _You’re kidding,_ the look said. And, much to Sadja’s delight, he’d returned to judging her insane too, it seemed.

“I like it,” she said.

“Grrmph—“ (or something along those lines), the furnace replied and tore his hand away from her. It settled back around the wheel, though Sadja did not trust the way his eyes cut to the radio, and then to her and back. Like he was considering making another dive for it, and that he’d be doing her a favour. Or himself, really.

“What _do_ you people do with your dead?” Sadja eventually asked him.

He blinked. “What?”

“She’s saying she’d like to be buried. Is that what you do?” Like how the people that had come with the Rain of Fire had done, or how they’d tried to do again, placing their dead into Trero’s soil, wrapped in cloth and encased in boxes made of wood.

Another quick peek her way, and Redfield’s brow furrowed.

“Yeah. Mostly. Some people prefer to be cremated though.”

“Cremated?” She shuffled her in seat and craned her neck until she found a comfortable enough position to keep an eye on him, while Redfield wrung for answers to a topic he would have likely preferred to avoid.

“Burnt,” he explained. “The ashes get placed in an urn. Family can chose to take that urn home, or it gets buried too.”

“And if there’s no body?”

“No body?” A glance her way again, then back on the road.

“You’re a soldier Redfield. Sometimes soldiers don’t get to come home. Alive _or_ dead.”

That stoked the flames, Sadja noticed. She sniffed as her gates took the brunt of the burst.

“Then you bury an empty casket.”

Her heart gave an irritating squeeze. Augustus had done that. An empty box for his son.

“We don’t bury our dead,” she said. “Putting them in the ground gets the Reapers all riled up. Most of the time they likely don’t give a damn, but when they do, they dig ‘em up again.”

“Why?”

“‘ve not got the faintest. Some folks say ’s how they earned their name, come reap the dead back when there were still more of them than there were of us. Or some other such nonsense. Others they think it’s to keep sickness away.”

“What do you do then?”

“Depends. I suppose we _cremate_ the bodies. First the Silent come to take your words, if you’re still up to say them, or they come to pass you in the quiet if it’s too late. Then you’re put on a pyre, or pushed on a boat, and set alight.”

“Take your words?” Curiosity snuffed out the flames and began swiping at her. Very focused curiosity, like it was important he knew the answer to that. _’Must have read me ranting about those cunts.’_

“Mh. They let you give up your last words. If you’ve got sins that you’d like heard. Or secrets you want squirrelled away.”

“Ah, like a last rite, a confession. We’ve got priests like that too.” And so he filed that away, she thought, into his pile of things Sadja.

“There’s some,” she continued. “Who believe the Reapers are servants to Elaya, ready to pluck them up and bring them to judgement. They prefer to be laid out in the open, bu’ tha’s a real mess at times. Since you never know if a Reaper will come around to pick them up, they’re jus’ as likely getting pecked up by birds and left to rot.”

“We call that a sky burial,” Redfield said. “Though…”

“No Reapers,” she concluded and he nodded. “Suppose some things stay the same wherever you go, mh?”

Another nod, this one barely worth mentioning, and the silence returned to stretch from one heartbeat to the other. Outside their metal beastie, the sun was a memory of strong red and purple stretching across the horizon. Sadja leaned forward and peered out the big window at the front and spotted the first bold stars dotting the evening skies. Those beautiful skies made of nonsense maps. Around them, a city was opening up for them, shoving aside the hills and the flowing grassland, and presenting its old buildings instead. Maybe she’d sleep well tonight, she mused. There’d be a soft bed, she wagered. No more couches. Those times were over. She got her own bed now, no exceptions. She’d curl into it, pull the covers up. And she’d—

_What’ll they do with you here?_

The thought came unbidden.

_Bury you?_

She turned to face Redfield. Her brows knitted, her throat constricted.

 _Will he be the one that puts you in the ground?_ Stern brow and all, staring down at a mound of dirt? Or thinking good riddance, because that’s likely what it’d be?

_Oh get over yourself, fledgling Keeper, you—_

“You want to learn how to drive this thing?”

Much like the intruding thoughts on how she’d be laid to rest here in this simple place, with their caskets and urns, the question came out of nowhere too.

She frowned. “Growing tired of ferrying me around on your concrete rivers?”

“No.”

His answer came quick. Sadja clicked her tongue and welcomed the barmy giggle that muscled the echo of anxiety out of the way.

“No?” She prodded.

He sighed, an _oh come on_ sort of sigh if she’d ever heard one.

“Figured you might want to know.” The beastie gave a throaty purr at that, and dove around a corner, flitting between buildings with their windows winking back at them. Once back on the straight, he threw her a quick glance, an eyebrow raised with the question still unanswered.

“Mh.”

“What was that?” Redfield chided. He let the beastie slow down too, and soon it rolled to a stop amidst a row of its lesser brethren. A sleepy square spread out in front of them. It was lined with the welcoming facades of places promising food and comfortable beds, and while Sadja’s stomach rumbled at the sight of them, she gave the man a brief bob of her head in agreement.

“Yessir, I’d be bloody delighted to.”


	22. The little Beastie that could.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sadja feels inadequate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh-- Hey. I haven't updated this one in a while, have I? My apologies, lovely reader. I've just been trying real hard to get further on ahead with Latchkey Hero and somehow ended up stuck on rewriting this chapter. But here it is. Very short, but hopefully to the point.

**THE LITTLE BEASTIE THAT COULD.**

* * *

_**S** QUEE-THWUMP SQUEE-TWHUMP _ the black blades went while they swung back and forth across the windshield. Sadja lifted her foot off the pedal that made the beastie growl forward, slammed her foot down on the other one, and clenched her fists around the steering wheel while the whole thing came to a sudden, jerky stop.

 _SQUEE-TWHUMP, SQUEE-TWUMP_ , the blade continued, waving at the midday sun peering down at them through a wispy layer of white clouds.

Next to her, the furnace grunted.

“How—“ she started, when Redfield’s hand darted in from the side, cutting her off. Sadja hissed at him, a quick exhale through her teeth, and jerked her right arm up in warning. His attempt at fixing whatever it was she’d done foiled, Redfield gave another grunt and looked at her with his brows trying themselves at a lopsided lean.

This fledgling Keeper wasn’t _daft_. She’d figure it out. Somehow. After all, she’d watched him turn those things on before. And off. And on again, all depended on just how much rain the skies had been pelting them with. If she recalled right then she’d find a wee lever there. Somewhere. No, not that one. That was the flashing lights he said she was supposed to use when she was going left or right. _Suppose that’s the polite thing to do. Let ‘em know you’re coming, so they can get out of the way._ Except that wasn’t how it worked.

There were _rules_. Who went first, and when, and worse still, there were signs that told you what to do. It was all quite complicated.

Redfield had tried to explain the ins and outs of it all to her, all the while holding the key to the beastie hostage and stared at her from the passenger seat. That she’d been busy counting the occasional gray dotting the dark hair above his ears he didn’t need to know. And that she’d not paid much attention he’d not needed to know either.

Not only were there _many_ rules, they were also horribly complicated, Sadja had decided. They also bored her to tears, and she had no time for boring things.

_Ah. There._

Another lever. She nudged it upwards.

 _SQUEAKTHUMPSQUEAKTHUMP_.

Now the blades were having themselves a proper spastic moment, dashing madly back and forth, frantically scraping against the windshield.

The Furnace, bless him, breathed out a chuckle, one that _almost_ made it out his throat.

“Gnnah,” Sadja blurted and let her hand fall down on the lever, which promptly killed the squeaking, thumping bastards, and next to her the _almost chuckle_ turned into an amused exhale.

“Arse,” she muttered and threw Redfield a glance. He wasn’t smiling, no. Though he did look tickled, in his own grouchy way. Like he was trying to enjoy her mucking up, but couldn’t quite get himself to relax enough to let the moment matter.

_What’s a girl to do to get a smile? Wreck us?_

“Right,” she said and turned her attention back to the original task: Driving the beastie along that narrow, empty road that ran through a dark forest just about ready to wake to the call of spring. Except today, spring had decided to take a step back, and the air spilling in through the open window by her left was just nippy enough to send goosebumps scurry up her arms. The scent of budding leaves and wet bark filled her nose, mixing well with the rainy days the furnace brought along, and out there the beastie growled idly. It didn’t have much of a choice but to wait while she got her head back together, or at least stopped pondering just _how_ one made a Redfield smile.

“… where was I?”

***

“ **W** atch ou—“ Redfield inhaled sharply. He probably braced himself too, Sadja figured, grabbed onto the edge of his seat, or snatched that handle above the door. Perfectly wide eyed and terrified.

The beastie roared angrily while it shot past a tall and infuriatingly slow _truck_ (as Redfield called it) that had blocked her path for way too long already. The acceleration snatched her back and she gripped the wheel sternly.

It felt _different_ being the one in charge of the heavy thing. No surprises for one. More control. Less being thrown around, and a whole lot more tight knots just below her belly button. There was the responsibility too though, in particular in regards of not going nose-to-nose with that green box of a car coming around the bend in front of them.

Yes. Definitely wide eyes. Had to be.

Sadja yanked the wheel right. Not too much, since that, she’d found out when they’d started on a wide track of gravel, was a bad idea. Well, technically it was a good idea, if you wanted to kick up dirt. That had been fun. So much, in fact, she’d gone and done it again and again, until Redfield had told her to cut it out before he’d _make_ her. Now that’d have been interesting, though she’d decided to be a good student and did as told. For a while, at any rate, because mischief could wait.

Coaxed by her hands on the wheel, the beastie swerved sharply to the right. _HOOOONK_ the car on the other lane complained at them, and then rushed by with a swish of hard air.

“Ha!” Sadja hollered out the window after the whiny plock. He should have just gotten out of her way, really. Who wouldn’t if you saw _their_ beastie with its mean glare of pinched headlights hurtling down the road and right for you? Them narrowed blinkers ought of instil fear into anyone, far as she was concerned.

Lightheaded and with a grin splitting her lips wide, Sadja committed herself to a poor excuse of a victory dance while trapped in the comfortable leather seat. She rolled her shoulders, twisted her hips left and right, and let her head bob left and right. The beastie, in the meantime, went around the rest of the bend.

Once that was out of the way, and she set it back on a straight line, Sadja glanced at Redfield. Just a quick peek, yet enough to tell her she’d gotten herself into trouble.

_Bollocks._

The man wasn’t impressed. In fact, she figured he needed a drink, the way his muddy blue stare was levelled straight at her and his eyes narrowed. There was an agitated tilt in his brow and his lips were drawn together tight, but none of it was due to some wide eyed terror she’d inflicted upon him. He was just really annoyed, wasn’t he?

“Pull over,” he growled, confirming her suspicion.

“Oh come o—“

“Pull. Over.”

***

 **S** adja clicked her tongue, folded her hands behind her back, and balanced herself on the balls of her feet. In front of her, covering the whole wall from top to bottom and left to right, sat words and colours warring for real estate. Magazines. Newspapers. Papers. Whatever they were called. There were too bloody many of them. They showed a wealth of things, and Sadja didn’t have the lick of a clue what of it was important, and what wasn’t. Faces, for one. A whole lot of those stared back at her, all of them pretty too, with bright white smiles and clear eyes. Their hair was pretty damn perfect to boot. Shiny almost, like someone had greased them up.

She sniffed and patted at her own mop of hair, all mussed from all that wind whipping around it. Probably wasn’t shiny either. Matted, more like. Then there were pictures of gorgeous metal beasties. Two wheeled ones, four wheeled ones. Many-more-wheeled-ones. Boats, too. And landscapes and cities, or just very picturesque houses. Musing the lot of glossy things, Sadja stepped up to the wall and tugged on one of the papers showing a squat, white building crouching at the edge of a cliff, overlooking a turquoise sea.

“Neat.” The paper slid back, and her eyes kept wandering. Gadgets. Bibs and bobs, all good for Elaya knew what. She took a step to the left. People with their bodies painted. _Inked_ , as Redfield called it, much like he’d thought she’d been at first.

It wasn’t like painting yourself was a thing unknown back home. Though, mostly, it served a purpose, rather than turning yourself into a walking canvas for your own, or others, viewing pleasure. That, and you didn’t mark your back, unless you fancied getting mistaken for a Sare and having things go to Hell real quick.

Still…

Sadja let her fingers trail along the picture of a man whose back had been transformed into one big bloody dragon. She traced the strong contours of his shoulders, the thick arms, and well shaped backside, all the while allowing a faint, appreciative whistle past her lips. The sound did not go by unnoticed. It roused curiosity form her left, which swatted at her until she turned to look. Redfield regarded her from afar, sceptically so, and he just kept staring at her as if she’d just grown another head. He’d even paused his exchange of paper money for _gasoline_ , and whatever else he thought they needed for the last lap of the day.

 _Food,_ Sadja hoped, not eager to go hungry until he decided where they’d wash up next.

 _What?_ she mouthed at him. Not-a-thing, apparently, since he turned right back to the girl at the counter.

Sadja shrugged and moved on. More ink. Then the ink vanished, and there were just a whole lot of scantily dressed women. Shortly after, the _scantily_ turned into _not at all_ , and presented her with a few covers bursting top to bottom with bared tits. Mostly really big ones. Sadja glanced down her own front and frowned.

“Huh.” She folded her arms below the comparably meagre mounds of her own breasts, and gave them a testing lift. _Bollocks._

 _Swat_ the curiosity went again, all alight with persistent flames. Sadja bristled. _Oh come on now._

She really shouldn’t have left the _barr_ in the beastie. Day by day the furnace was getting a whole lot more adventurous out there. All the smouldering by himself and minding his own business was, apparently, no longer enough, and he turned his attention her way more often than he didn’t. Even if he might not even know it himself.

Redfield had moved from the counter to the wall of papers too, though he stuck to the black and white ones way at the end of it. And that’s where he was staring at her from, right eyebrow lifted.

 _What?_ She mouthed again, this time putting a little more effort into it.

He gave his head a faint shake, the sort that said _Ah-what-the-Hell_ , and turned his attention back to the papers. Disregarded. Again.

Sadja dropped her arms to her side, tucked her hands into the pockets of her jeans, and continued her left-bound survey of the wall. Eventually she reached the Furnace. He held a plastic bag in his left hand, and from where she stood she couldn’t see any food in it, but she _did_ spot a few beer bottles piled at the top.

 _’Shame’_ , she thought. He’d not drowned himself into that particular haze for a few days now. She sniffed and looked up at him while his hand hovered slowly over the papers.

 _He’s getting better,_ she told no one in particular. _That’s good. Right?_

Of course it was. Why wouldn’t it?

Better, maybe. But certainly not anywhere near good enough to cut through the fog in his mind. Far as he was concerned, they’d still met at a bar, and the world around him was of no consequence with nothing to tie him down.

And then, just out of bloody no-where, he tried to prove her wrong; One moment he was calmly (or whatever passed for serenity on that man) browsing for a paper, the next his jaw clenched and he scorched her gates up right and proper.

He’d started pulling one of the newspapers free, and staring back at him was a black and white rendition of _Ada Wong_. An entirely different sort of pretty in comparison to the wide smiles. Sadja frowned. She’d rather like to knock her fist into it.

 _I don’t know what you’ve done to the man,_ she thought at the picture and placed her left hand in the crook of Redfield’s arm while he stared murder at it. He was all tense under the clothing, muscles stretched taught. _But could you just leave him bloody well alone?_

“Was I that terrible?” She asked. Her voice didn’t make it through the fog, so she pulled the arm down. The paper slid back out of sight, and Ada Wong vanished. He turned to look at her. Sluggish, like she’d woken him from a deep slumber. One that still clung on stubbornly.

“What?” Confused. Out at the bloody sea, heavy mists pressing in tight and waves coming on strong and treacherous. Sadja indicated the bag with a jut of her chin. He followed the gesture. His gears turned through the muck, but they weren’t finding purchase. Much like her back on that gravel road with the metal beastie.

“My driving,” she helped him along. “Was it so horrid you’ve got to wash it from your noggin’?”

His lips twitched.

_Ding. There you go._

“You’re not half bad,” Redfield told her, and Sadja liked to think she was giving him a decent anchor to keep himself from being swept away by distracting Ada’s.

“That mean I get to keep driving?” She flashed him a quick, hopeful grin.

“No,” he crushed the flutter of hope.

 _Worth a try._ “Spoilsport.”

***

_**H** e’s going to leave when he remembers._

Sadja frowned.

_Huh._

The thought came out of nowhere, like these things so did. It tied itself to her heart and started sinking it, inch by inch, right down into the bottomless pit where the beast was probably waiting to take a good bite out of it.

“You alright?” Redfield asked, and Sadja hated herself.

Of course she was alright. She was just outright dandy. She was alive after all. Pulse still going strong. Breathing like you so did. Not dead, like she should be. She cast a look at him, sitting behind the wheel (where he apparently belonged, and she didn’t). He flicked his smoke out the window, then looked at her again. Worried.

_Poppycock._

His brows lifted, urging her on to go ahead and answer the bloody question.

“Mh.”

“What was that?”

“Yessir, I’m just fine.”

A quick, familiar dance, ending in half a lie that Sadja despised herself for. Redfield didn’t believe her, but he’d learned not to pry. Eventually she’d tell him, or so she thought his reasoning went. Not this time though, because he didn’t need to know about how the last two days had her thinking she _liked_ this.

That there was a part of her that liked sitting here, liked stretching her hand out the window, fingers cutting at the air. That she liked not knowing where he took her, where they’d stop for the night, and what food she’d have. That she liked the music here. Liked the peace.

Liked him, too.

No.

Redfield didn’t need to know about that, and neither did she need to fill him in on how that simple, quiet, _selfish_ thought had taken hold when they’d left the wayside station behind, the one with the wall covered in colourful papers.

She’d been _livid_ with dread when it had come knocking. _He’s getting better._

Better.

A whole lot better.

Still in tatters and still in pain. Still a puzzle, scattered to the winds. Though the pieces were being blown together now, weren’t they? All they needed was a good start. An end piece that he could focus on and then he’d figure out the rest too. That end piece, Sadja thought, that might as well be the picture of Ada Wong. If he’d looked at it a little longer and endured the confusion, would it all just have come crashing down on him?

_So what?_

Sadja sucked in her bottom lip and bit down hard. So she wouldn’t be the girl he’d met at a bar any more. She’d be the girl that he’d gone chasing after with deadly intent, instead.

_So what?_

The metal beastie would carry him home, that was what. Home, rather than wherever his morning whim dictated. Home, wherever that was, away from her. He’d leave. He’d be gone.

 _So_ what _? You know damn well what: You’ll die._

Sadja exhaled sharply and let the concern from the furnace wash over her. _Don’t remember._ Her eyes cut to him, to the heavy frown edged onto his gruff features. _Please._

But of course she couldn’t ask him that. Couldn’t tell him that. All she could do was sit here and feel the guilt gnaw at her heart.


	23. Beaches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sadja gets her nerves stripped bare, and Chris recalls something about pitchfork wielding.. Spaniards? Includes graphic violence inflected on gummy bears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I update 'dis. _*holds up chapter, smiling proudly*_

**BEACHES**

* * *

 “ **Y** ou sure it’ll be fine, Redfield?”

“Absolutely.”

“Not a shred of doubt?”

The furnace sighed. Impatient and _grouchy_ , of all things. As if she was being unreasonable. Which she wasn’t, no. She was being perfectly reasonable, because this was a _big deal,_ even if the muddy blue stare levelled at her didn’t seem to care much. It _did_ take a generous hike down her neckline though, giving Sadja pause as she curled her fingers into her jacket to pull the fabric tight. The effort to cover herself did not go unnoticed, and while she sniffed and huffed, he let his brows snap up.

Her grip on the jacket tightened. She couldn’t risk it falling open. Or worse, off. That’d spell disaster. Sadja didn’t want disaster. Not today, anyway.

Redfield, in the meantime, oblivious to her plight, gave her a slight, encouraging nod.

 _No,_ she though at him, lips set tight.

The furnace rolled his eyes and grabbed her hands, his fingers pressing into her skin, strong and unyielding and— he wouldn’t dare—

 _Don’t you even think about it,_ she warned him, the threat stuck halfway down her throat, lodged somewhere between a miserably squeak and a convincing growl. Her arms locked in place. Her fingers clenched.

And of course he dared.

One harsh pull to the side, and another quick jerk downward, and the jacket slipped from her shoulders. If he’d had stopped there, Sadja might have started telling him of all the colourful ways he could go service Tre and Ro (for an eternity, because that’s what he was earning himself), but Redfield didn’t. He turned her around with a yank on her clothing, spun her about like an oafish brute might spin his partner in dance, and turned her on the spot.

The jacket came off in its entirety. Her _armour_ came off. All of it, pulled away neatly and leaving her bare.

 _Oh_ _bother._

The feathery touch of a late midday sun pecked at her skin, and Sadja’s shoulder blades snapped back. She stood ramrod straight. Held her breath. Waited. Itched.

There, at the back of her head, forty years of survival instinct tolled every single bell it could find, and rung them hard and loud.

They were difficult to ignore, if not impossible. Fumbling fingers quested around her, tried to drag that stupid, _useless_ shirt with its big open slice for a back around herself. Of course that made her look like a bloody idiot, but she couldn’t very well just _stand_ here, right in the open, at the edge of the promenade with a sandy beach on her left, and a colourful city waiting on the right.

There were _people_ here. Not a lot of them, but enough. They’d look, and they’d see and they’d…

… not care?

Sadja rolled her shoulders and breathed a startled: “Huh.”

“Believe me now?” Redfield stood by her left and busied himself with surveying the promenade. Flipped over his shoulder lay the jacket he’d dragged off her. Against her will, no less. Now he carried it like some prize won, a trophy to bear, and when Sadja’s hand darted up with the itch of wanting it back, his muddy blue eyes snapped right to her. _Don’t,_ they said and _Gah,_ she thought back at him.

“Mh, Redfield—“ Sadja let her hand drop back down, not wanting to provoke the slight pinch in his brow to turn into a full-blown scowl. In response the beast growled its disappointment at them both. A common gripe, these days, along with anger hitching at the base of her throat as it tried to remind her that she was _more_ and he was _less_ and that no amount of scowling could tell her what to do.

Yet it did, and that irked the beast and got it howling its woes and sinking teeth into its cage. When she wouldn’t listen— because really now, what was there to listen to —it turned to gnawing at her with frustration, leaving a trail of smouldering ash lining her stomach. Hot and grimy and generally just _dirt._

“I suppose I believe you now.” Admitting defeat to the quiet, persistent battle he’d fought over the last two days didn’t feel as terrible as she’d thought it might, and Redfield didn’t go and grab that opportunity by its sad little antlers to gloat.

No. He gave a faint nod of _I told you so_ and moved on with his life, like he so ever did.

 _Thing done— Get going—_ Rinse and repeat.

One hand dipped into a pocket on the moss green shirt he wore, its sleeves rolled up just below the elbows, and pinched a lonely smoke from it. She’d rather have liked to be the one wearing that piece, even if it would have fit two of her, and was wrinkly around the buttons since he didn’t bother ironing.

_Elaya’s bloody knickers, get a hold of yourself Keeper. Stop acting like a spooked urchin, it’s making you look like a bloody fool._

Right. Easier said than done. All it took was a perfectly innocent stranger trudging by, guilty of nothing but a quick glance at her back, and Sadja’s spine tingled and sparked with the promise of doom.

“Come on,” Redfield said, the unlit smoke rolling between his lips. He started walking, unaware —or maybe just graciously disregarding— her unseemly jitters.

And the Keeper, with her nerves laid bare, fell in step with him.

* * *

 **C** hris gave the lighter a frustrated shake. _Come on…_ Another flick of his thumb and yet another dismal spark that failed at igniting a proper flame.

_So much for that._

He sighed and tilted his head back. The glare of the midday sun stung his eyes, but Chris could think of things worse than a hint of Spanish spring warmth on his face.

Like… running out of disposable lighters, and forgetting to buy new ones because he’d been too busy— too busy doing what? His chin snapped back to his chest and he rubbed at the back of his head while palming the dead lighter in the other. He wanted to throw the useless thing over his shoulder, or maybe toss it over the promenade wall on his left, right into the sandy beach with the Balearic Sea lapping up against it.

But that would be littering, and he’d been told, sternly so, that he had better manners than that.

Chris frowned. Did he?

Just what _did_ his burden really know about him? He grunted, balled his fist around the dead lighter, and idly scanned the promenade for a bin. _Enough,_ was the verdict.

Next to him, the lovely back attached to said burden continued to inch along with him. She walked quietly, perfectly uneasy with the situation at hand, head on the swivel and eyes scanning for threats where none could be found. He looked down at her, at the set of small round shoulders and the gentle curve of her neck. The backwards designed shirt clung to them, plain and white at the front like any normal piece, but wide open at the back with three strings tying it at the base of her spine.

What was it with women and their unnecessarily complicated wardrobe?

 _Don’t complain,_ Chris told himself.

It _was_ a lovely back after all, one he hadn’t seen in a while, since last time she’d let him anywhere near it had been a small eternity ago. They’d been in Italy still, and she’d been sitting cross legged on the table of yet another hotel room, explaining how irrational lottery scratch tickets were, while he’d removed her stitches. That had been, what, three days after she’d gotten herself torn up? When he’d whistled his appreciation on how quick she’d healed, she’d told him that it was yet another _perk_ , and no, she couldn’t grow back things if he chose to pick her to pieces. Then she’d covered up her back and kept it well out of sight ever since. Not because she was a shy little thing. No, Sir.

It was just a thing a _Sare_ did, apparently. At least the ones that valued their freedom, or so she insisted.

 _Shame,_ Chris thought. He rolled the unlit cigarette between his lips and studied the lightning bolt decorating her back, striking out from the jagged circle sitting behind her heart. Its marred greens and blacks stood in a sharp contrast to her pallid complexion, and the longer he looked, the more convinced he was that the faint specks of colour dusting her shone brighter now that the sun touched them.

Yeah. Shame indeed. Though while he enjoyed the view, Sadja seemed ready to crawl from her skin. Literally, if given the chance.

He grabbed the cigarette and pinched it between his fingers.

So here they were; At a beach. A strip of sand and some water rolling up to it. Big fucking deal— Where was her enthusiasm? She’d reminded him often enough that a beach was what she wanted. And now what?

Initially, Chris hadn’t really known what to expect when he’d stopped the car by the first respectable beach on the Spanish coastline. In hindsight, Chris should have known better than to expect anything at all. She’d stared at it. Then she’d gotten out and stared a little longer. The tips of her boots had dug into the sand and she’d fidgeted where she stood, surveying the dirty blue sea as it pushed sludge, weeds and driftwood ashore. Eventually, his burden had finished her quiet contemplating of the horizon, stretches her arms above her head, archer her back like a lazy cat would, and then turned on the spot and come back to slip into the car.

 _”So,”_ He’d watched her pop open the glove compartment and rip open a bag of gummy bears. _”What now? You going to go for a swim?”_

Her response had been a brief scowl, as if he’d just lost his mind. Again. _”Are you daft, Redfield? Of course not.”_

A yellow bear had been singled out from its herd and she’d turned her attention to thoroughly tortured it by squashing it between her fingers. At times her eyes would cut towards the beach, taking in the meagre numbers of swimmers tolerating the spring temperatures.

 _”Why? I’m sure you can help yourself to a swimsuit somewhere.”_ Another scowl, one he’d met as deadpan as he could manage. _“Or a bikini.”_

That cracked the scowl and she gave a fleet tilt of her head.

_”What’s a bikini?”_

_Of course…. what’s a bikini._ He’d scoffed and then pointed at a tall, southern European woman sporting one of a bright red variety. She’d arched a brow at it, then stared right back at him.

_”Not going to happen.”_

_”Why not?”_

_”’cause a Sare doesn’t go about parading her back in public. It’s just not how things work, Redfield.”_

And that was that. Sadja’s chiding had ended abruptly when she decided to find out just how many gummy bears she could stuff into her mouth at once, burying the topic for another day.

Turned out she’d been right. Once the jacket had come off, she’d tensed much like a cat in a dog pound would. Either that, or she’d gone and replaced her spine with a rod of braided iron. If he didn’t know better he’d think the whole of Barcelona had it in for her, and would come at her in an angry, pitchfork wielding mob. _’Or whatever modern day Spaniards use for a good lynching.’_

He frowned. There was a pinch of familiarity to that thought. Something of importance, something relatable. It stirred the thick fog in his head, uncovered sheets of paper laid out in front of him on a wooden table. Photographs flicked by, tease him with hints of dead eyes, torn limbs and gnarly _things_ straight out of the news-channels.

_What the hell?_

The fuzzy memory soured his stomach, and Chris pinched the bridge of his nose. He exhaled, tried to force what was left of the fog out, desperate to think clear. To _see_ what he knew was there, but refused to peel from the shadow. It didn’t work. Of course it didn’t. All it did was leave him hurting for a stiff drink.

As if reading his mind, Sadja tilted her head to look at him. It was a jerky motion that brought her chin up sharply. Her brow furrowed and an eyebrow arched curiously. It was a brief glance. Their eyes met and her lips twitched. First up, then down in rare uncertainty as they struggled to decide if they were expected to smile or frown. Then her eyes cut away and continued their mad dance up and down the promenade in anticipation for disaster. A brief glance, yes, but still long enough to wrestle his attention away from the pain flaring in his skull and remind him of the threat walking right there with him.

The rod that had once been her spine coiled a little tighter, and soon, Chris thought, he’d hear it whine and groan and then it’d snap.

_And you’ll be standing right there, taking the brunt of it. Brilliant idea, man. Nothing could possibly go wrong with that._

_* * *_

《《

_**L** eft foot._

_Right foot._

Sadja walked blindly ahead. The heavy sheet of cloth around her eyes itched. It rubbed against the bridge of her nose, coarse and moist from the humid heat and her own sweat. Bloody thing smelled horrid too. Old and rancid, soaked by terror that no amount of soap could ever wash away. Sadja crinkled her nose and sniffed. She’d been scared, too. Terrified. You didn’t need to be Sare to fear having your eyes bound shut. She rather liked seeing, much like everyone else, really.

When they’d approached her with the firebrick red piece of cloth, she’d found reserves to struggle with. Not like that had done her any good. They’d just wrapped the thing even tighter around her skull while she’d bucked against the restraints and snarled at them. The knot they’d tied at the back of her head had been painful as well, and hours later it still chaffed uncomfortably. She tried not to think about it and focused on her steps instead.

 _Left foot._ “Shyster!” They shamed her from the side.

 _Cunts!_ she thought back harshly.

 _Right foot._ “Quack!” They hollered.

Ever so often they curses weren’t enough, and they’d fling things at her. Fortunately for her, they all seemed to be terrible at throwing. The most she’d ever felt was a brief brush of air against her bared back as someone had almost gotten lucky. Sadja ground her teeth together. The other four Sare being pushed through the crowd better be bloody thankful. If it wasn’t for that stupid piece of firebrick coloured cloth on her, then everyone ‘d be getting shit thrown at them, not just her.

But as it was, the cloth labeled her _Cad’his,_ and turned her into the only target worth egging. Or cabbaging. Or appling. She sniffed. Turned food, anyway. It smelled a bit like a stew gone bad.

_Left foot._

_Right foot._

Four unfortunate souls marched with her.

Sadja didn’t know their crimes. Hadn’t asked, since she hadn’t much cared. She’d been too busy trying to find a way out of that pinch. She didn’t even know their names. One was a _Medica_ , and that was as far as her knowledge over her fellow prisoners stretched. A Ward Knight had bound his eyes shut in front of her, then draped a light blue veil over his bowed head. The rest of them wore simple white; Sare without much designation and special talent. Sadja sniffed again, this time with frustration.

 _Firebrick_.

Couldn’t it just have been red? Or call it crimson, really. Who had thought that a _Cad’his_ ought to be slapped with the dirty colour of charred brick. And it was bloody useless, too. It was the _barr_ that kept her in check, and the voidmite shackles that cut into her wrists. She didn’t need to _see_ to feel.

 _Though you do need to_ see _to bolt._

Panic beat razor-sharp wings in her stomach, sliced at her from within, and reminded her that she was in trouble.

_Left foot._

_Right foot…_

Her step sat down on uneven ground. A dislodged stone, maybe. One stray upturned bastard sticking up from the cobbled path they paraded her down on. Her ankle rolled, and Sadja’s teeth clicked shut as she tripped to the right. Great. As if shaming her in public, with her back bared for the rabble to curse, wasn’t enough. She had to go kiss the ground too, right in front of all those hooting village idiots. The nerve on those cowards.

_Ack…_

The air whipped past her as she fell to the side, following the heavy weight of the shackles binding her hands in front of her. A rustle of cloth, and a snap of leather later, and a large, gloved hand snatched her elbow. It was a firm grip. A mean grip. Sadja tried to pull away, since she’d prefer to take a bite from the cobbled path than being saved by a Knight of the Ward, but the hold on her was unrelenting. Much like the rest of those bastards. The panic kept slicing. Her lips turned up in a futile snarl. She’d have liked to think herself defiant as the Knight dragged her along, but the challenging embers wouldn’t burn. All she managed was that snarl and a meek grunt, and then she was back at marching.

_Left — Right — Left and Right and Left and Right…_

》》

 **S** adja tried not to think too much about how the air thick with sea salt crept along her back. It bothered her. And that it bothered her, that only made things worse.

 _What you expecting?_ She clutched at her shoulders. _Some Ward Knight to come march up the street?_ They’d do poorly at blending in here, so least she’d see them coming from miles off. Her eyes roamed carefully across the promenade.

Men and women, colourful on the outside, drab and gray on the inside, were crowding beneath the spring sun and its first decently warm rays. No armed to the teeth and uniformly _stiff_ Knights were amongst them. She was safe. Perfectly so too, since this was _here_ and it certainly wasn’t _home_. _Safe as you can get while dying._

“Still antsy?”

Redfield’s question had her dismiss thoughts of wandering Knights and reeled her attention back in. Sadja sniffed and looked up at the miserably furnace. The man with the battered mind, stuffed to the brim with terrible secrets, watched her fidget. He held the same stupid unlit smoke rolling between his fingers that he’d carried around ever since they’d started walking, as if he’d forgotten how they worked.

_Oh you good natured oaf. Troubles of your own, and still you worry._

Sadja clicked her tongue.

“I know this must be awfully strange to you.” She let her hands slide down her arms and hooked her thumbs into the rims of her trousers.  _Jeans is what they’re called, Silly._

To her left, out on the beach, a group of people were trying to keep a ball up in the air while they tossed it back and forth over a net. They were taking the whole business terribly serious, with the once in a while dramatic leap ending in a more or less graceful dive into the white sand.

 _White_ sand. Not black or grey. White, could you believe it? White and pretty and, quite obviously, _soft._ Not grainy and sharp, good for nothing but grinding the skin off your bones. Back home, those dives would have left the enthusiastic young group bloodied, but here they bounced right back up, with not a scratch on them.

“Much like this is to me.” Her head jerked towards the beach, indicating the back and forth adventures of the harassed ball getting punted and slapped.

“That?”

Sadja nodded and looked at the furnace. He was desperately trying to keep his face set straight, but his eyes narrowed briefly.

“That’s a game. It’s called beachball. Or handball, if you don’t have a beach around.”

“ _Handball_ ,” she echoed. “I guess that makes sense. Do you play _handball_?”

He blinked once and his muddy blue eyes took a heartbeat to stare right through her while his mind dragged the answer from his scrambled noggin. “No. I’m not much into recreational sports.”

“What are you _into_ then, Redfield?”

What a strange choice of words. _Into_ things. You _ran_ into things. You _got_ into things. Like a scuffle, that’s the sort of thing you got _into_. You didn’t.. you weren’t… _Ah, just roll with it, Sadja._

“You haven’t answered my question,” he told her and decided to slip the smoke back into his shirt pocket.

“You’re not answering mine.”

The furnace frowned at her, and Sadja couldn’t help her brief smirk.

“Obviously there’s got to be something you like to do. Aside of driving me across… uh…”

“Europe,” he muttered. “And the jury is still out on that one.”

“It’s what now? And what’s it doing out there?” Sadja slipped around Redfield and walked up to the stone wall that separated the white sand from the watering holes and restaurants lining the edge of the city. Most of the places were closed, but the ones that had opened their doors were filling up, with people sitting outside, their faces turned to the sun while they waited for their food. Her stomach reminded her that it was somewhere near lunchtime, but then again it assumed any time of the day to be just that, so she ignored it. Instead she grabbed the edge of the wall, lifted herself up and sat facing him.

Something was off. He stopped in his tracks and stared back at her, the way he so did, with that mix of curiosity and judgement, but his heart wasn’t in it. There was a distraction spinning about in his skull.

_What you thinking about, Redfield? What’s in there now that needs your attention?_

Himself, that was what. Him, the man. Him, the person. His past and the painfully disorientating present. He’d remember soon, and the man she met at a bar would be no more.

“A-right then, let’s see…” Sadja started, while her heels tapped gently against the wall. For a moment she worried her voice might trip over itself, betray the hitch of desperation she felt. It didn’t. “You’re a runner. We know that.”

He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Obviously, Redfield. You’ve got a good set of legs and lungs and you never griped when I asked you to keep me company. Right?”

A quiet stare was all she got.

“I take that for a ‘yes’ and don’t go arguing,” Sadja made a point to look at him properly, to study him like he’d often done with her, and the way he stood a little straighter, he probably noticed, and was by no means comfortable with the attention. Her lips twitched and she sniffed at the salty air.

“White lightning come get me—” she told him and lifted a finger to point at him “—but you like to lift heavy things. Those arms don’t pop out nowhere and I’ve seen my fair share of arms in my lifetime you can go believe that, mh?”

His narrows his eyes at her and Sadja winked at him in turn.

The furnace flared briefly, though it didn’t scorch or bite or whip at her, like it would have done two turns ago. Or weeks. However way you grouped your days. He puffed heated irritation her way and turned towards her, with his broad front crowding in close. Sadja had to tilt her chin up slightly to look at him and felt the pit of her stomach squeeze. Half an arm’s length of salty air sat between them. A short arm. A very short arm. He hovered there, taking up more space than he rightfully should. It didn’t matter if he was trying to be neighbourly, at the end of the day he was an intimidating man.

That he reminded her of Knight Commander Teel right now didn’t come as a surprise. Admittedly, Teel’s shoulders didn’t span that far and his arms weren’t quite as _trunky_ , but aside of that they… well, they were soldiers. Warriors. That’s what you got, wasn’t it?

No, Sadja corrected herself. There was more to it. It wasn’t just in their posture, their bodies shaped by years of staying alive. A simple brute thrown into the ring, that grappled and mauled others for fame and wealth, could be of equally impressive statue. And one of those trees of men or women that were planted by doors to keep unwanted attendants out.

Both Redfield and Teel could likely do well in either brutish role, but they were _more_ than just a set of strong limbs. They walked with dignity. Or strode, more like. Walking, now that was something everyone did. A purposeful stride, on the other hand, that didn’t come easy. You needed said purpose for it, because without it it’d just be an arrogant strut.

Sadja let her head fall slightly to the side. Their eyes too, she decided. One set a muddy blue, the other fading to a misty purple. Both alert (permitted one stayed away from alcohol) and _ready_. The world could decide to buck and turn around them and they’d be prepared.

She dug a little deeper still, peeled another layer off the man and thought of the times Redfield had made a show of being an arse. _In pain_ , was what it had been. _Arse_ was simply how the agony decided to manifest itself. Though when push came to shove, or _Reaper_ came to pounce, he’d been there to stand with her. He’d not left her behind after she’d attacked him either, but had gone out of his way to find someplace safe. And then he’d waited for her to wake up too, rather than dumping her and taking flight.

 _Should have just left you there._ Whoever had said the Keeper needed her Passenger to ruin a good moment? She was perfectly capable of that herself. _And let the Wasting end me?_ That was what this was about, wasn’t it? _Yes._

Well, he hadn’t. Redfield wasn’t the type for that.

 _”Captain,”_ Nivans had called him. And a Captain of any sort, whether they stood at the stern of a ship or ran the fields with their men, did not have their responsibility end with their own life. They carried the lives of those under their command on their shoulders, and they’d fall with them if death came knocking. Or lived with the guilt.

“Mh,” Sadja confirmed loudly. _That’s it._ Duty and loyalty marked those two men. Duty to their world, to those who relied on their protection, and loyalty to their men who had no choice but to blindly trust that any sacrificed asked of them was asked for a reason.

Then _Captain_ Redfield smirked at her. You could barely tell that his lips twitched or how they curled at the edges, lifting the stubble of a beard with them.

“You’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?” He asked.

Sadja tilted her head at him. “Mh. Of course.”

“Do I talk in my sleep or what?”

She shrugged. He _did_ mutter incomprehensible nonsense while he slept, mostly whenever a nightmare clawed its way to the surface. At times, Sadja thought, it felt like someone had decided to throw a bucket of oil over spluttering flames. All sticky and nasty and spreading angry hot pain everywhere.

“You’re a simple man.”

“Ouch.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Redfield. I’m not saying you’re a couple of knights short of a crusade. You’re sharp. And you’ve got principles, Elaya permitting you’re not drowning in a bottle.”

His brow furrowed. Sadja knew she’d pinched him with the remark and reminded him of his unbecoming sin. She put on a disarming smile to try and soothe the sting and lifted a finger to tap it against his chest.

“What I think is that you’ve got a good and true heart, with not much room for intricate things like deceit and plotting.” Sadja drew her hand back and gave her arms an absent minded rub as a gust of wind swept up from the ocean behind her. “If you’d like to argue that,” she continued. “Go ahead. But I rather think I’m right. Though that’s just one side of you. It’s what you do to stave off the boredom that I cannot for the life of me imagine. You’ve got… a _wealth_ of things at your disposal, most so nonsensical I cannot wrap my head around them, yet I have not the faintest which ones strike your fancy.”

Somewhere behind her unnervingly bared back, a chorus of cheers rose from the _handballing_ group. Sadja threw a look over her shoulder and watched them dust themselves off and congratulate each other from across the opposite side of the net.

“You cart me around,” she said and looked back at Redfield. He’d folded his arms. “And I’m certain that _jury_ of yours will come back in telling you that, yes, you enjoy it. What then though? You’re not going to tell me that brooding over the rim of a glass, or strangling the neck of a bottle, is all there is.”

His stare was close to drifting right past her, following the preoccupied mind that sat behind his muddy blue eyes. Was he pushing through the fog in there, chasing after the black mop of hair crowning Ada Wong’s round face and her full red lips flashing their taunting smiles at him? Sadja pushed her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Her heart gave a sickening little lurch towards the churning pit in her stomach, reminding her of the selfish greed festering down there. The one that wished his head to stay in all sort of disarray, rather than fitting itself back together.

 _Who cares what he liked,_ the Beast said. It reached through the bars of its cage and let sharp talons rake along her heart. _Doesn’t matter any more. He can find new things to entertain him._

True. _We might even help. We can be very entertaining if need be. Because we know what will be if he remembers. He’ll see us clearly, how we jabbed a weapon into his pet’s side._

No. He’d forgive her, she insisted.

 _Ha._ A nauseating cackle shook the bars and something sharp sunk into her heart. _Even if he does, he’ll still leave and then…_ The impossible Kenneth and his gift of a cold death would come visit.

_Oh bother._

“I like old movies.” Redfield’s eyes snapped back to her. Sadja swallowed a bitter lump and curbed the chattery demons that muddled her thoughts.

“Movies,” she echoed. “The _TeeVee_ box.”

He nodded.

“Huh. So what you say—” She pushed herself off the edge of the wall, landing lightly on her feet in front of him. What had been a short excuse for an arm in distance between them before, was now a mere finger’s width. “—let’s go find us some old movies?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new reader washed up on the shores of this fic, but since they commented anonymously and I don't know if they'll ever see the reply: _"Thank you, Natasha for leaving a lovely note! You're awesome."_


	24. Curtain Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sadja tries to wind back time-- and Chris remembers what he'd lost.

**CURTAIN CALL**

* * *

 

Her journal stared back at her, rows upon rows of tiny words committed to the pages. They laughed at her. Cackled. Each arch was a hearty guffaw, and every straight line a taunting sneer, to which Sadja only had one thought to spare: _To bloody Hell with you all._

She scowled at how painful in their honesty they were, and how they’d decided not to be helpful at all, but had crushed that hope quickly and without mercy. The pen in her grip dug into her skin.

But what else was she to do?

Write. Hope it gets better. That was what.

❛ _Pray tell, Elaya, why is that when I see hope and feel a measure of peace, that you have to come curse me?_

_What’s it I’ve done to you? When was it that I wronged you?_

_Have I misspoken, misstepped?_

_Pray tell, Elaya, why is it you’re a two-faced cunt?_ ❜

The pen’s casing creaked faintly. Sadja willed her fingers to relax, although at first she wondered if snapping it would help, since turning her thoughts did everything but. Probably not. At this rate she might as well just accept things as they were, stop trying to think of an out. Of things to say. To do.

Sighing, she dropped the damned thing, let it roll off the journal and across the table, until it went right over the edge to land quietly on the puffy carpet. Same carpet she’d been so smitten with when she’d first stepped on it because it had swallowed up her toes.

Now she just wanted to set it on fire.

Sadja growled with frustration, threw her head back and stared at the white ceiling with its turquoise patterns of things tropical. Shells. Turtles. Fish. Other fish. More fish. Fish that weren’t fish. _Whales_ Redfield had called them, and _dolphins_. Things that needed air to breathe but still lived in the ocean. How backwards was that? She snatched for the memory of when they’d sat on the fat, soft couch together, and she’d pointed at one drawing after the other and he’d struggled to put names to them. Man could barely remember his own sister, but he knew what a _red snapper_ was. _”You fancy fish,”_ she’d said and he’d rolled his head to the side to regard her with a barely visible smirk. _”I like fishing.”_

Sadja smiled. At least that was what she expected her lips to do, only for them to turn to a frown instead.

_Elaya why won’t you spare me a touch of mercy._

A smidgen would have been enough. A hint that things weren’t as grim as she made them out to be, but all Sadja felt as she squeezed her eyes shut and listened for the irritating loud thud of her heart stuttering about in her chest, was the pinch and squeeze of dread.

She snapped her eyes open, pinched a few of the pages of her journal between her fingers, and— with a flick of her wrist —wound back time to find better days that were less likely to fill her stomach with lead.

❛ **_Day 43_** ❜

This one had been good. She nodded to herself and traced the memory with a shaking finger.

❛ _Arrived in a place called_ Bar-ce-lo-na _. A tourist town, Redfield said, where people go to spend their_ vacations _, which is something that he never gets. I don’t have the faintest what that’s supposed to mean, and I didn’t feel like pressing the question, since there was a_ white _beach rolling by._

White. _Not the bleached grey pebbles down at the cold shores up North, across the_ Divide _, where the jagged, steep cliffs meet churning dark seas. No,_ white _. Sort of._

 _He got all disappointed after that, since I didn’t… well… didn’t_ something _. Anything. Maybe if I’d rolled around in the sand for a minute he’d stopped taunting me the rest of the day. But you can’t rush a thing li—_ ❜

Sadja flinched at the sharp snap of glass shattering.

Her chin jerked up and she craned her neck to look across a brightly lit room. The balcony doors stood wide open, white curtains rolling listlessly, puffed up by a breeze carrying the night on salted wings.

_Shit._

Sadja had dropped her fair share of glasses in her life. She’d thrown them, too. Some cracked with the whisper of scattering shards, or came apart with a melodic ping— and that was that. They weren’t supposed to _disintegrate_ with a loud _POP_ and stun an army of crickets into sudden silence. All except one little brave trooper; That _one_ guy that continued his solo to the backdrop of the ocean rolling to shore in nature’s uneven rhythm.

**_You LIED to me!_ **

She trapped a shallow breath in her lungs. Like he was standing right there in front of her, taking up more space than he had any right to, since a man was a man was a man. Not a giant, or a room’s worth of wrath that boiled away the very air this fledgling Keeper needed for breathing.

 **_You_ ** **LIED** **_to me!_ **

Her bottom lip slipped between her teeth. Sadja bit down on it, hoping to cast out the voice booming in her skull, and decided she did not ever want to hear Redfield roar again.

❛ **_Day 45_** ❜

She abandoned 43 and skipped ahead.

❛ _Ha. He’s watching me like a sapvek whenever I pull out the journal these days. A_ guilty _sapvek. Like right now. Just think of it, I’m sitting here right across of where he’s nursing a bump on his head with a bag of ice, and he’s_ dying _to know what I’m writing. But he’s too damn well mannered. He knows its none of his business. Doesn’t even try to ask, even if he’s gotten a taste for my secrets._

_It would bore him to tears anyway, those ramblings of a fledgling Keeper who still can’t quite get over not having to wrap her back._

“Why” _he asked._ ”What about when you’re home? Or somewhere _safe?_ ”

_So I told him: It is how it is. Not difficult to understand if you made yourself pretend a little. Even here, in this simple place, I’d seen women dressed from the tip of their head to the sole of their feet in black. What’s with that? Or the ones covering their faces with thick shawls? Where’s the difference?_

”Religion,” _was his answer, and then some, but he didn’t seem to agree with that either. So we left it at me thanking him for… for what? For convincing me that it’d be just fine and that no one would think ill of me? For smiling when some half-witted lad started following me around?_ ❜

Sadja remembered the boy with his enthusiasm for her markings. Sun kissed skin. Spiky, jet-black hair. A painfully white smile, a garish yellow shirt and a pair of baggy pants hanging halfway down his arse. He’d gaped at her back and Redfield had found her growing discomfort very _droll_.

Her eyes skipped from her journal to the balcony door. The crickets had picked up again, their little wings hard at work as they tried to out-chirp each other.

“You could go check on him.”

Her murmur sounded hollow in the empty room.

“Or maybe not.”

Day 46 looked more interesting than having herself screamed at.

❛ _I said —_ ”We’ll stay here for a while, a-right?” _— and he didn’t even put up a fight. Just shrugged his shoulders with as much enthusiasm as you’d expect of a man watching moss spread. Then he slid the keycard through its slot, pushed open the door, and migrated our belongings onto the nearest couch by means of flinging them halfway across the room. It’s a big room too. Easily as spacious as my crib back in Edonia. There’s a kitchen with a table big enough to seat five. A ridiculously lavish bathroom. A corner dedicated to a massive_ Tee-Vee _box including a soft carpet, fat couch and narrow table. And last but not least, two separate bedrooms. They might be on opposite ends and I can’t hear him toss and turn and mutter in his sleep any more, but I_ can _still tell that his nightmares have gotten worse. They’re vivid now, come with piercing clarity, and when he wakes he dives after them, tries to catch them by the tail before they fade, but all he ever carries away from that is a headache and a pot of cruel emotions._ Loss _. Despair. Helplessness. Failure._

 _Guilt._ ❜ — Sadja propped her elbows up on the table. So maybe day 46 wasn’t so good. She balled her left hand into a loose fist, wrapped her right around it, and rested her chin on her thumb while nipping at her knuckles. The word goaded her. Guilt. _Guilt. Fucking GUILT._ She’d given it room, placed it in the centre of the page, then circled it once. Then twice, because Elaya’s bloody knickers why not.

❛ _This has got to be a joke, right?_ You _my last charge? Why, if I’d known that you’re the Cataract’s idea of a curtain call I might have just put a little more effort into making your life miserable._

❛ **_Day 48_**

 _Turns out Redfield doesn’t just fancy old movies. He has a knack for what he calls_ pool _, though why they chose to name it that is beyond me, much like a whole lot of things are. It’s a game played on a felt covered table, for one. Not in a_ pool _of any sort. It involves two long sticks, fifteen balls, and four corners with holes in ‘em that the balls need sinking into._

_He’s good at it._

_I’m not._

❛ **_Day 49_**

 _His days are getting better. He hasn’t wanted to run, for one. Five nights, and we’re still in Barcelona. At the outskirts of it anyway, in the same fancy room on the top floor as the first evening we’d rolled up. Redfield might not be impressed by it, but I’m beginning to rather like the_ actual _pool on the roof. From one side it’s got a good view over the sprawling city. A cluster of tall spires sits at the centre, each tower praying at the clouds above, and narrow clefts of streets run between the carpet of houses. Turning the other way lies a whole lot of water. Dinghies float out there, their pointy sails catching the wind. Bigger boats, too. And_ massive _ships, their bellies large enough to swallow the_ Seditio _trice over. Redfield says they carry people and cargo all across the world, from one shore to the other. And they’d been doing that long before planes had taken to the skies. Neat._

 _I remember the last time they tried to launch a ship big enough to combat Trero’s moody waters, thinking they could send it past the_ Buckle _and make away with all the tedious mountaineering._ Elaya’s Grace _they’d called it, to appease Her fickle charm. A whole lot of good that did them… The thing washed ashore in pieces a few turns later. No one lived, or so’s the story. They’ve not attempted another since._ ❜

Sadja sighed. This wasn’t helping.

She leaned to the side, stuck her head under the table and looked for the wayward pen. “There you are.” With an awkward stretch that bent her back the wrong way, the fledgling Keeper fished the pen from the carpet and returned to point the business end of it at the journal. She flipped one page, then another, her eyes catching moments of yesterdays.

The drive up and down the coast.

Him getting his arse handed to him when she’d challenged him to a sparring match after he’d questioned her proficiency.

The fight at the bar in town, where she’d had to almost drag him away before he could damage a snooty lad’s face.

That had been the first time in a long while that he’d topped himself up to the point where she’d had to shove him into his bedroom and slam the door on him. _”Sober up, horndog!”_ _WHUMP_ the door had said when he knocked a fist against it from the other side. Then had come the crushing silence and a greedy prowler raking hot pokers for claws up and down her gates. Sadja had shivered, slunk off to sit on the roof, as far away from him as she was willing to go, where she’d dangled her legs off the edge of the pool and let her skin and soul alike leak heat into the night.

Day 51, the one right after, was still unfinished.

❛ _I’ve never before witnessed anyone regain their memory._

 _I’ve seen people get knocked their senses from their heads long enough to make them forget a few minutes. Or jolted back from the brink of death, which can be befuddling enough to not quite understand the world around you for a while. But never like this, never to the point where the better part of your life is laid out in front of you. “ **T**_ ** _his_ ** _is who you are._ **_This_ ** _is what you’ve done. What’s left is a_ **_lie._ ** _”_

_Having that veil lifted without his consent, and without giving him the chance to prepare, made Redfield drop a pan. He braced himself against the kitchen counter and stood silently for a while, breathing in big gulps of air and exhaling them in fits of growing anger. I should have wrapped the barr around me then, but I decided against it, and weathered the storm that whipped up Elaya’s Hem around him._

_The pacing came next._

_Out of the kitchen nook. Back into the kitchen nook. Out again, all across the room, back and forth and forth and back, until the pattern eventually ended in front of me. He didn’t look at me, just stood there for a few heartbeats, fingers twitching. Then his right arm came up. Quick. Threatening. The hand posed to grab me. I flinched. He growled and stopped the motion, yanked his hand up instead to run it through his hair like he was about to start tearing it all out, one chunk at a time. His lips moved, silently berating the world, or himself, I won’t ever know, before he finally looked at me._

_And there it was, that one thing that I had expected when the skies had been alight with colour: Recognition._ **I know you** , _his eyes said._ ❜

Sadja set the tip of the pen down. There wasn’t much room left in the journal. She’d reached the last page and had to pace her words and shrink them best as she could. _But there’s not much left to be said, is there?_

A little more than seven weeks— six turns —boiled down to this.

To fifty-one days, Elaya knew how many of them borrowed, filling three slim books. No, not borrowed. _Stolen._ She’d taken those days without asking. Worse, she’d taken them from a man she’d been meant to _help_. Might have been the Cataract had expected her to not go and run away from him back in Edonia. Maybe she could have prevented all of this if only she’d held still. But she’d chosen to detach herself from her duties, to curse the Cataract, and shame her duties into silence.

By the time she was ready to move the pen and put those thoughts down, ink had started soaking into the page, creating an ugly splotch that seeped through the paper. Tiny black tendrils spread outwards and she almost hacked up a miserable laugh when she remembered that stupid injection, and the mark it had left on her neck for a few days.

She lifted the pen and tried again.

This time it was the swish of curtains and the clicking of their hooks along the rail that stopped her. Sadja looked up and turned to peer over her shoulder. The furnace that was Redfield walked across the room, fires burning hot. He’d fuelled them with anger, but not the putrid kind that would make her gag, but the righteous one that could have cracked bones if he’d been born marked. And if he’d focus it, rather than letting the blaze spread without purpose and direction, as if the whole world deserved his ire and would pay dearly for the offence of simply _being_.

At least until his eyes snapped to her. They found her sitting perfectly still, an excellent target for the anger that hurled itself against her gates like a pack of raving mad dogs.

 _I’m sorry,_ she should have said, but it was too late for that already. He held the phone, _his phone_ , in his right hand.

“You didn’t call them,” she said.  

Redfield exhaled. It wasn’t as much a sigh as it was a growl in the making, only tempered by what she figured must have been fatigue at this point.

“No.”

“Wi—“

“Don’t. I don’t need this shit right now.”

Sadja _didn’t_. Instead she watched him walk to his bedroom and yank open the door. He paused in the threshold, stared at her one more time like he meant to drag her up the stairs and toss her off the balcony, and then threw the phone at her. She snatched it from the air.

The door fell shut.

She turned back to the page.

This wouldn’t do. There wasn’t enough room on this for what she had to say, so she flipped the journal closed, got to her feet, and carried phone and pen to the kitchen counter. Her head felt… fuzzy. Her throat clicked when she swallowed. No, this wouldn’t do at all. Chewing on her bottom lip and pretending it wasn’t so it’d stop twitching, Sadja grabbed the pad of white paper lying on the counter.

Why did all _hotels_ have their only little note things? Didn’t people ever bring their own? She wandered towards the kitchen table, now armed with pad, pen and phone, and sat.

❛ _I was supposed to_ fix _you, wasn’t I? But I didn’t pay attention. I ignored the signs, because all I could think of was myself. I wanted to live, Chris. I didn’t want to die._ ❜

Her jaw clenched. Steady pressure squeezed her throat. She lifted her left arm, rubbed her eyes against the sleeve of her shirt. They felt puffy, wet with tears. _Don’t be ridiculous Sadja._ The pen went back to work.

❛ _It’s too late to make amends now. I cannot turn back time and give you back the days that you’ve lost. The ones I’ve stolen. Neither can I undo what happened to you, and I will never know if I could have stopped it all to begin with._

 _I messed up._ ❜

She tapped the end of the pen against the table and stared at the lavishly decorated header of the page. Blue again. Waves. And a _dolphin_. Printed below the drawing, in small, thin letters, was the name of the place and a street name and number.

Sadja set the pen back down. ❛ _Try not to hate me too much._ ❜

That’d do. That’d _have_ to do. She nodded to herself, threw the pen across the room, and picked up the phone instead.


	25. Thirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Redfield remembers what he's lost-- and Sadja goes in search of her Reaper.

**THIRTY**

* * *

  **B** efore Chris woke, he watched Finn die. Finn Macauley, 22 year old, fresh faced and wide eyed. Explosions expert. Rookie. Finn Macauley, who’d followed him to his death without question.

To this day, Chris didn’t know if the boy had any family. He’d not looked back long enough to find out. Hadn’t looked back for anything at all, really. Some poor bastard had to though, and then there’d have been a knock on a door somewhere, and a solemn faced stranger telling a mother or father that their son wouldn’t be coming home. That he’d died on the 24th of December, when he should have been home eating a stuffed Turkey and getting drunk. And there wouldn’t be a body either, no, sorry Ma’am, because you didn’t bury what your son turned into. You killed it. You burnt it. You forgot it.

Chris lifted his arm and dropped the back of his hand over his eyes. He tried to discard the vivid memory of the boy’s outstretched hand, grasping through the metal bars, still hoping that his life wasn’t _done_. Still calling out for him. Still dying.

Just another soldier doing his part, and Chris couldn’t do a damned thing about it. He’d watched, like he’d watched countless times before— like he’d vowed he’d never have to again— and Finn had died.

One more name struck from the roster.

One more face he’d never forget. He should know, because he’d tried. Tried and failed and— what was that damn noise?

Confused, Chris turned to the persistent buzz rattling on his left. His head felt leaden, thoughts rolling around sluggishly between his ears, and his eyes reluctantly blinking open to find his phone flashing wildly at him from the bedside table.

It was switched to silent and gradually vibrated its way towards the edge.

“What…”

He swung his legs out from under the covers, sat up straight, and stared at the thing while his groggy mind limped along. By the time it caught up, the phone had almost made it to the end of the table. Chris picked it up.

 **Piers NIVANS,** the caller ID read. _How?_   He grimaced and let his hand fall away while he pinched the bridge of his nose. This didn’t make any sense. Sure, Chris had considered calling Piers. Had considered calling a lot of people, truth be told. But right now, as he balanced the buzzing phone in his hand, the only coherent enough thought he could gather in one place was mild disappointment that he hadn’t gotten to sleep longer than two hours. The clock on the phone informed him, matter of fact, that it was 4AM, and that was just cruel.

He stifled a yawn.

It didn’t help that he didn’t know what to say. Much like a few hours ago, when he’d confined himself to the balcony with drink and phone and anger running rampant, Chris was at a loss. Back then his fingers had hovered over one name after the other, but they’d never quite connected. He couldn’t find the right words then, no matter how much he’d wanted to. So he’d decided to sleep on it and hoped he’d be able to figure things out once he was rested.

_Well, you had two hours, Redfield. Get it done._

Chris cleared his throat, lifted the phone to his ear. Paused.

Where to start? _Hey Piers? Long time no talk? How you doing buddy?_ Right. He cringed. That’d not fly.

“Captain?” the familiar voice cracked through the speakers and stirred crystal clear memories. He fought the urge to click the call off and throw the phone across the room.

“Captain,” Chris repeated, suddenly very much aware that this was it. This was where things would go right. Or at least be put right as much as one could possibly hope without turning back time, and somehow he doubted that was on the menu. He’d make her pay one way or the other. Get his life back. Sort this out. Be himself again. Somehow.

Chris got up and dragged his jeans off the foot of the bed. “ _Captain,_ ” he echoed one more time. “I haven’t heard that in a while.”

Piers exhaled on the other end of the line, and for a few moments both men traded silence. So it wasn’t just him struggling to find the right words. Chris pinched the phone between his ear and shoulder, and pulled on his jeans while he listened to a familiar background noise mixing into the static. The droning rumble of an airborne plane.

_Not civilian._

Piers eventually worked out what he’d wanted to say, and he made it sound so perfectly normal that Chris could have been fooled he’d only been gone a day.

“You’ve been leading me on a damn good chase, Captain. Are you alright?”

 _I have, haven’t I?_ Wrong answer to that though. Was there a _right_ one?

“Still working out the details on that.” Yeah. That’d do. The truth.

He wandered through the door, out into the quiet main room, with barely any light filtering in through the closed drapes. What little there was turned the furniture into faint silhouettes. Chris figured he’d bump into every single one of them on his way to the kitchen, so he flipped on the lights, momentarily regretting his decision when the white glare forced his eyes shut.

“She told you where I am, didn’t she?”

“Yeah, she called an hour ago.”

Chris raised an eyebrow. Had Piers just squeezed that sentence out between gritted teeth? It had certainly sounded like it, with a hint of seething to it. Great.

“Ah.” He looked across the room. Her bedroom door stood open. “And you’re already on your way.”

“Damn straight we are. You’ve been gone for almost two months—“ a few excited chatters in the background interrupted Piers, followed by the hollow thuds of a fist hitting metal. “That’s long enough. We’re bringing you back in, Captain, whether you like it or not.”

Again Piers exhaled, a frustrated sigh that Chris knew was on him. “And I’ve got a million questions.”

_Of course you do. I do, too._

“Like, what happened, Chris? Where have you _been_?”

“That’s a long story.”

Yet another puff of air. Annoyed this time, but with a smile in it that he couldn’t disregard. “You could start at why you bailed from the hospital.”

“I—“ Chris picked at his brain for what words could possibly come next, while his eyes cut back to Sadja’s bedroom door. “I don’t remember.”

Another truth, much like the memory of a few hours ago, of him feeling his fingers twitch with the need to wrap around that little liar’s neck and squeeze.

He’d been… harsh? _She lied to you,_ he tried to justify, thrown off track with the phone held lightly to his ear. _All of this could have been her fault, for all you know. She was there._

But she hadn’t killed his men. Ada Wong had. Except, if they’d not gotten delayed by Sadja, if they’d… Chris made himself look away from the door.

 _Coincidence,_ he told himself. She was a coincidence, nothing more. An ill timed one. Though that wasn’t an excuse for the lies, for the deceit. For stringing him along for two months, instead of telling him the whole truth. She could have ended it all. Could have told him. Instead, she’d kept him like a pet science project. A neatly documented one, probably, considering how much time she’d spent hunched over her journal, with her honey coloured eyes darting up at him ever so often. The same damn journals, Chris noticed, which were now lying in a thin stack on top of the kitchen counter. All four of them.

“What _do_ you remember?” Piers— oh right. Back to the present.

“Edonia. I remember Finn. Ada. What she did. After that it’s all a little sketchy, but I’ll let you know once I figured it out myself. Until then, how about—“ His words were choked off by the familiar squeeze of the noose wrapping itself around his neck. Lying on top of the journals, neatly folded, was her _barr_. A note rested on the fabric, weighed down by a shell she’d found by the beach. Chris picked up the note and looked towards the entrance. Her jacket was still there, hanging right next to his. But her boots were gone.

“Shit.”

“Captain?”

Three long strides and he was in her bedroom. He flicked on the lights. Empty. She couldn’t have.

“What did you do…” She wouldn’t. He hurried across the room and started frisking his jacket.

“Come on... key... key... where’s the fucking _key_...”

“What’s going on?”

 _She can’t._ “Please girl don’t do this to me.”

No keys. Chris felt his stomach turn. Nausea hit him.

“God _damnit_!” His voice bounced off the walls. Too loud in the silence, too hard— too real.

 _Now what? Think, Redfield. Think!_ He couldn’t just let her chose for herself. No, he wasn’t done with her yet. She had her lies to answer for, and she couldn’t very well do that while dead. “Piers, I’ll call you back.”

“Captain wha—“

He clicked off the phone.

Chris shoved the note into his pocket. _Move now. Read later._ Mind racing, he ran a hand through his hair and turned on the spot in front of the door. _Go after her._ He stalked towards the wall safe by the TV nook and keyed in the code. Go after her? Easier said than done. She could be anywhere. He grabbed the 1911s and a bundle of bills, and whatever sense he could gather up, because he _knew_ what her leaving meant, and so did she, and why the fuck would she do this to him?

Sadja had signed her death warrant the moment she’d left the hotel. They’d never talked about it, not directly. He’d never asked, and she’d never bothered telling. She never had to. The implication had hung between them ever since he’d snooped around in her diary, even if it had been hard to swallow— and it still didn’t go down smooth and left him with only a handful of answers, and a metric ton of new questions.

But it was enough. Enough to make him wonder if the hour she had on him meant he’d already be too late.

_What you still standing there for? Get moving, Redfield._

The hotel foyer stood deserted, save for a smartly dressed receptionist pulling the graveyard shift. She looked up as Chris hurried from the elevator and straight for the front desk, and greeted him with a practiced _Good Evening, Sir_ smile. Chris figured she’d seen worse coming and going than a disheveled guest missing a shirt and with a half buttoned jacket. Having said guest pull a gun on her though? That drained the colour from her face and no amount of practice could keep the smile on.

_This isn’t you._

“Keys to one of your cars.” He gave the gun a quick wave, indicating the key box mounted on the wall, then snapped it back to point at her chest. “Now.”

_Threatening civilians?_

Her head bobbed frantically. She stumbled for the keys and, rather than bearing the burden of choice, returned to dump a handful of them in front of him. They scattered on the counter.

_I don’t have a choice._

Another jab of the gun, and the woman almost tripped trying to keep as much distance between them as she could. Eventually her back cracked against the desk behind her and she slid to the floor with a miserable whimper.

“Thanks.” Chris slid the gun back into his belt. He dug out a hundred dollar bill, flicked it over the counter, and gathered up a few of the keys.

* * *

♪ _ **D** on’t fear the Reaper,_ ♪ the radio sang for her and she howled along with it, well aware that she couldn’t sing to save her bloody life. Never would either, as things so had it. She’d run out of time.

Didn’t matter though, since the empty night rushing by the open window likely didn’t care a lick about her howling like some tone deaf dog. And if it did, it could go get bent.

♪ _We'll be able to fly_ ♪

 _ < What do you think you are DOING! > _ the beast raged from its pit, throwing itself relentlessly forward. It wanted out. Wanted to claw its way to the surface and stop her, since she wouldn’t listen no matter how loudly it screamed.

_ < Turn BACK! > _

♪ _Don't fear the Reaper_ ♪

Sadja lifted her left arm, stuck it out the window and let her flat hand ride the air currents whistling by. They tugged at her hair and snatched at her shirt, and they felt comparably warm against the chill inside the beastie.

“ _Running again. That’s what you’re doing._ ”

Soul-marring cold raked at her right, and she winced. The impossible voice, bringing impossible words, attached to the impossible Ceat. Right on time. He froze the blood in her veins with his whisper, and her heart laboured against the strain of it.

“No, Lover. I’m not running any more.”

Sadja sniffed and let her fall down hard on the pedal that urged the beastie forward. A pitched growl bit at the night and it flew onwards, cut through the dark with its lights, and tore her away from what she’d have liked to keep. Her life— that sorry collection of memories, of rights (and mostly wrongs), and an aching heart. Not that big of a deal, really. Not that big of a loss.

She lifted herself in the seat and leaned to the left, far enough to stick her head out the window and let the wind whip around her ears and drive tears from her eyes while she inhaled the night. Salt. Wild spices. Rotting flotsam and jetsam. Seaweed and a future cut short.

What a pretty night it was though, with the ocean stretched out to her left, a quiet, roiling black mass glinting with the faint reflection of stars. No moon tonight to dance on its waves (or listen to her howls), and no boats anywhere in sight. To her right, the road snuggled up against a jagged rock wall, and the faster she went, the blurrier it got as the beastie hurtled past— and the longer she balanced herself between the wheel and the window, with her foot on the pedal, the closer the wall inched. Until her foot cramped, at which point the wall decided to try and hug her, and Sadja dropped back into her seat with a “Woah!” of delight.

The beastie swung wildly when she snatched the wheel to the left, and then some more when she yanked it right, and for a moment Sadja thought she’d done mucked up.

Her heart kicked up the familiar staccato and adrenaline flushed the ice from her veins and left her trembling in the seat. But then the beastie rightened itself, and she was left to continue her race through the night in a more or less straight line, with the impossible Ceat her passenger.

He was oblivious to her almost having flattened them against some rocks and got to work on chilling her blood again. “ _You’re fooling me then. This looks a lot like running.”_

Sadja shrugged. She reached for the radio. You couldn’t have a conversation in that racket. It wasn’t polite. So she lowered the volume and eased her foot off the pedal.

“I’ve done enough of that. Running. Enough of everything, if you ask me. Which you should, you know. Ask.” She glanced at his ghastly apparition. “Ask me if I’m done with this. All of this.”

He chose not to.

“Hrrrm. By the by, hope you don’t mind me saying, but you look horrible.”

He did. There was barely any colour left on him. His clothes were in tatters, his skin almost see-through, and whatever of his raven black hair was still left, was now simply _ashen_. Faint threads of green still clung on to his milky eyes, like fissures through globes of dirty marble. The only colour that truly remained was the bright red spot by his temple. Perfectly centered and perfectly fake. The bullet that killed him had punched through just behind his left ear, and it had left a wide, irregular hole. Sadja would know. She’d put it there.

♪ _Love of two is one_

_Here but now they're gone_

_Came the last night of sadness_ ♪

The fledgling Keeper glanced at the radio.

“Do you think ‘Da will be around? When I’m dead, will he be waiting for me? Berate me for being Sare? Hate me for being a _Cad’his?_ ”

“ _That’s not how this works._ ”

“Of course not.” She knew that. Knew a lot of things about what happened in death that made the concept frightening. Final. Her fingers drummed against the steering wheel and her left foot tapped a flawed rhythm. “But you could at least pretend.”

Her throat clicked and she inhaled, tried to suck in more of the wild night flying past, but it had gotten difficult to breathe, as if she was walking the southern Grief where the air was so thick you thought you might have to cut it.

“Did you know that people here tell themselves stories of a heaven and a hell, where they go when they’re dead? If you behave you go to heaven, to spend eternity with all the other decent folk and some god in dire need of a shave. If you’re naughty you go to hell, where you burn and get poked with pitchforks.”

 _ < Turn back, > _ the beast thundered. It was livid, and Sadja wished she had a knob to turn for it too, one that’d muffle its frantic cries like she’d done with the music. _ < Turn BACK! > _

“No,” she said. It was difficult not to listen, to fade the anger to the back of her head and not give in to the desperation. For once she’d prefer the taunts, the stubborn claims that she’d be better off dead anyway and shouldn’t bother fighting it. But tonight the beast did not crave death. What a bloody shocker… could that thing ever make up its mind?

“I’m sorry, you know.” Sadja flexed the fingers on her right hand. They were getting numb. Her palms felt clammy. Cold.

“ _You killed me._ ”

_Here we go again…_

“I— “ Her teeth clicked shut and she gave the beastie another reason to spit a howl into the night. The noise bounced off the rock wall. “That wasn’t my fault.”

“ _Not YOUR FAULT?_ ” the impossible Ceat roared. His spectre pushed closer, a tattered face concerted with fury hovering by hers. His lips moved silently, but his voice echoed loud and clear within her. “ _You murdered me in cold blood, Sadja. And then you let our unborn child die. She was going to be beautiful. She was going to be everything we’ve ever wanted and more. But you wouldn’t allow it. You! Everything you touch,_ everyone _that lets you into their life is sentenced to ruin._ Everyone. _”_

“Maybe.” _Probably._ “But, much as I hate to admit, Nathric was right. He always said it different than the others, and still I didn’t care to listen because I thought I knew better. I’m not innocent, not free of blame for what happened to you. I—See, I’ve paid my penance for your death. And I’ve mourned hers. But I’ve never forgiven myself for them, thought for so long that it was my doing and mine alone. Like I had a say in it. Like I could have done something. _Anything_. When you made me kill you, just because you wouldn’t listen, I tried. Elaya knows… I tried, see? I tried and there was nothing I could have done to stop it.”

She gripped the wheel a little tighter.

“ _LIAR!_ ”

Sadja exhaled sharply. That one had stung. It left her right side numb, as if she’d been dipped in ice, and added leaden weights to her limbs that dragged them down.

_Not yet._

“Yes. I’m a liar. I lied to you. I lied to myself. Elaya have mercy on my soul, I’ve probably lied to every single person I’ve ever met.”

She looked to the right. Blinked her eyes. Things were getting blurry. Darker, as if the lights had decided to fade from the world. The impossible Ceat stared at her from his seat, waiting. For her to conclude her confession? Or for the Wasting to come crashing down on her and pick up where it had left off? Sadja’s eyes flicked back to the road.

“See, Lover, I’m sorry for a lot of things. Half the steps I take I’ve got someone I should apologise to.”

She blinked again, rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes. The headlights cutting through the night dimmed, and so did Elaya’s sheltering hem around her. Dimmed. Faded. Faltered.

“What I’ve never said though, and what I should have said, was that I’m sorry I didn’t love you as much as you loved me. I’m sorry that I never loved you like I _should_ have. That I _pretended_ , all those years. Fooled us both, because I thought it was the right thing to do.”

The lights winked out and Sadja let the beastie hurtle itself blindly forward.

 _Not shot. Not stabbed. Not eaten alive by a Reaper._ She puffed out a choked sob. _Just a sudden stop._

* * *

 **W** hy right, headed out and away from the city? Why the narrow road winding itself along the shoreline? Chris didn’t know. He could be wrong thinking she’d follow the same road she’d taken the other day, the only one she knew. It made sense, right? He grimaced as he remembered her staring up at him while she hung upside down from the couch, her knees hooked around the backrest and her fingers drumming on her stomach. _”I’m bored Redfield,”_ she’d complained. _“Can I drive the beastie again?”_

Yeah. It was a good a guess as any.

 _Maybe I’ll find her neatly parked on the shoulder. Looking out over the ocean. Or building a fucking sand castle._ Anything but…

His mind registered the trail of debris scattered across the road before he could finish the thought. Chunks of red metal winked back at him in the headlights of his borrowed ride. Broken glass. Chips of sand coloured stone. But no skid marks. _’No breaks.’_

“Shit.”

He slotted the scene together in his head. She’d clipped the rock wall at the bend. Hard. The impact had lifted the Audi, most like. Then whipped it around, slammed it back into the rock. And then it had upended itself and rolled (or slid, or bounced, or fucking flown) across the road before heading over the edge of the slope.

Now it lay on its roof on the rocky beach. Burning. A thick plume of oily smoke rose from its wreck.

“God damnit…” Chris had his boots out the door the moment the car ground to a halt. “You are _not_ doing this to me.” He rushed down the slope. The descent was rocky, uneven. He almost tripped, despite his car’s headlights leading the way, and had to pace himself in favour of not breaking a leg on the way down.

Flames licked from the chassis, and as he drew closer the air choked his lungs with the toxic mix of _car wreck_. Singed metal, burnt rubber, melting plastic, and too much gasoline and oil. Chris coughed, discarded thoughts of the wreckage lightning up even worse and setting him on fire too, and slid to the ground by the driver side door. Or what was left of it. The thing had been torn off and lay a yard away from him in the sand.

No Sadja.

The car groaned. A loud pop had Chris recoil and jump to his feet. A second later intense heat ripped the spring chill from the air. The flames went higher as the fire spread and Chris forced his feet to carry him back.

_Where the fuck is she…_

He paced away from the burning Audi, squinted against the bright flames and then against the glare of the headlights and back where he’d come from.

_Must have gotten thrown from the vehicle on her way down._

“Come on, where are you…” He started up along the path the wreck had taken and shouted: “Sadja!”

_ < Oaf! > _

Bright, sharp pain lanced through his skull.

Chris winced. His vision blurred. Someone took a foot long needle and jammed it through his head, starting at the base of his spine and not stopping until they broke out between his eyes. Then they dragged it out in one slow, deliberate motion, tearing his mind out along with it. His knees buckled. The ground by his feet fell away and turned to starry nights, blemished by roiling black smoke.

He couldn’t think a thought straight enough to even consider breathing. It took the guttural crack of a motor cycle engine revving up to break through the drowning in his head and remind him that he needed air. And to have him remember why he was even here, lying on his back in the sand.

_Sadja._

It could have been an accusation as much as it was a reminder, but either way it served its purpose. Chris pushed himself back to his feet. He’d have to deal with what had just happened later. First he had to find her. The questions could wait.

With the burning wreckage to his left, Chris headed for the stuttering sound of the bike. It stood further down the road, at the edge of the slope, with the rider straddling it sitting upright. A man, by the looks of it. No helmet. No suit. He was looking over his shoulder. Right at him.

_Trouble._

Chris’s stomach lined with ice. His breathing slowed. His right hand twitched, eager for the comforting grip of gun. He remembered _Ansel_. The man and his Reaper things. The man with the sword, who had tossed him about with the flick of the wrist. There wasn’t a shred of doubt that the rider up there wasn’t here because of a scenic late night drive. Such a thing as coincidences seemed to flee the scene with Sadja involved. And while the man stared at him, a primal, simple part of Chris wished it could do the same. He curbed the thought, took a step forward.

The rider shifted on his bike. He lifted his left hand lazily and pointed down the slope, away from the burning vehicle. Pointed right at Sadja, in fact. She lay stretched out in the sand, easily mistaken for a piece of driftwood in the dark. A very still piece of driftwood.

Chris’ eyes cut back to the rider, who shifted on the seat, rightened the bike, and lifted his hand to his forehead in a mock salute.

“Hey!” Chris dashed forward. The bike spat angrily, kicked up sand, and sped off. “Ah— come _ON_!”

 _Nevermind,_ he told himself and kept running, one sluggish step at a time— because the fucking sand wouldn’t let him. His boots sunk into it. Slowed him down. Kept him from being where he wanted to be, right at the edge of the wreckage, where the glow of the flames barely touched, a mere whisper of light draped over her still body.

As he drew near, maybe two yards away, because he was almost there—almost there—just a few more steps—his head filled with faint, harsh whispers. The white noise of a TV out of tune.

_Never. Mind._

He pushed on.

Another step and he was by her side, and his ears popped with a sudden change of air pressure. Except there wasn’t one. Couldn’t be. The white noise died.

 _Nevermind that too._ He dropped to his knees.

“Don’t be dead.”

Her still form had been laid out perfectly straight. Head upturned, one arm parallel to her body, the other draped over her chest. Her eyes were closed, face bloodied and her skin ashen with pale lips tinted a faint blue. More blood had matted her hair and pooled around her shirt where her arm rested. The arm looked _wrong_. Twisted.

And she wasn’t breathing.

“Don’t. Be. Dead.”

Chris pushed a finger against her neck. No pulse. He snatched the phone from his pocket, redialed the last number. It started ringing.

“Come on. Come on. Answer.”

Two rings. Three rings. Chris let his eyes wander, tried not to list all the possible reasons why dead was dead. Broken neck. Shattered spine. Brain already starved of oxygen. He had to try. Had to do _something_. Couldn’t just stand by.

Not again. Not ever again.

He let his eyes drop back to her, then away again, and for the first time noticed the foot long sticks run into the ground around them. Metal. Half an inch in diameter. They drank up the light of the fire and the residual gleam of the stars. Chris looked around. They were spaced out evenly, forming a vague circle around them both. “What the… “ A thin line of thread looped around their bases, stretching from one stick to the other. It was covered by sand where he’d rushed through.

“Captain?”

More shit to think about later. He snapped his eyes back to Sadja.

“Piers, you can track this phone, right?”

“Uh, yeah. I… “

“Good. I’m approximately…” _Think, think!_ “…ten miles west of Barcelona Airport. I need a medevac. Cardiac arrest after a car crash. Now.”

Piers wasn’t even halfway through his hesitant _Yes-sir_ before Chris dropped the phone, not bothering to click it off. He swiped Sadja’s arm off her chest.

“You,” he told her while he tilted her head back. “Are not going anywhere.”

The second compression came with the distinct, muffled pop of bone breaking. An impossible, throaty growl followed, riding the air around Chris and brushing against the back of his neck like a predator’s threatening exhale.

_Never… mind…?_

The third compression cracked more bone. And with every other quick pump against her chest, the growl slid closer. The thing circled him while he worked and Chris swore he could see the air respond in kind. It _vibrated_ , a mirage flickering to the otherworldly tone. Otherworldly, much like the women beneath his hands. Dead. Dying.

“Don’t do this to me.”

The growl rose to a guttural wail of protest. Like it cared, like it echoed him. He ignored it.

“Come back.”

Chris fell into a practiced rhythm. 30 pumps. Tilt her head back. Breathe. 30 pumps. Breathe. Don’t get tired. 30 pumps. Breathe. Check pulse. Nothing. Keep going. Don’t get tired. Don’t get distracted by the shadow prowling around you.

30 pumps… breathe…

“Come back…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes part 3, " **Day 51** " and we are moving right into part 4 with " **Acclimation** ".


	26. Part 5: Acclimatization, The Complication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Piers wishes Captain Redfield would have just washed up in a bar somewhere. A sentiment that Chris probably shares with him. Because man, this is going to be complicated..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Sinvik intermission this time. Sorry :) Right to Piers and Redfield.

****Part 5: Acclimatization** **

**THE COMPLICATION**

* * *

 " _ **H** ow is he?” _

The question was simple enough. The answer, Piers knew, not so much.

 _Complicated_ about summarised the situation, along with Chris Redfield’s general state of being, but he doubted his sister was about to accept _complicated_ for an answer.

Claire, ever the Redfield she was, had dealt with her brother’s _missing in action_ stunt the past two months gracefully, albeit quietly. Very. Quietly. Not for like of caring, no that would have been too harsh. Of course she cared. He was her brother, for crying out loud. Sure, they might not have gotten along too well growing up. Most siblings didn’t. Not really. And even once the growing up had been out of the way, they’d been terrible at _being_ grown up around each other. Something about the older brother’s authoritative personality clashing with her own.

Figured.

It had taken _Umbrella_ and the horrors they’d raised to make the siblings put aside insignificant squabbles in favor of being family.

So, yes. She cared. And she’d been relieved when Piers had told her that he’d found Chris. Relieved. Not surprised, because there’d been no doubt in her mind that her brother was okay. That he’d turn up out of the blue one day, and she’d get to do what younger sisters did when their brother took off to be an idiot.

Either that, or she’d simply not wanted to consider the alternative. To acknowledge that, despite it all, Redfields were mortal.

Yeah. She’d been relieved. And then a little on edge, especially once he’d told her there’d been a _hitch_ , which would delay their arrival back stateside.

Said hitch left them stranded in a French military hospital, one priding itself in narrow hallways, and squat ceilings lit by glaring white neon strips. It was a claustrophobic setup, and Piers didn’t like it. Especially that fading, green linoleum floor and its unnecessarily loud squeaks.

God. Those squeaks.

They’d not bothered swapping out their gurneys since World War 2 either, and the sparse decoration might as well have been around since then too. Old, washed out paintings of fruits and flowers, like the one he was looking at right now, dotted the halls.

Two oranges, an apple, and a depressed sunflower.

“ _Piers?_ ”

_Ah, right._

He took another moment to turn the answers over in his head. No. _Complicated_ wouldn’t do.

“He’s fine.”

Technically that was the truth, Piers figured. His mind was still shot to bits, but the rest of him seemed in one piece.

 _“So the medical emergency..?”_ _Of course she knows about that. What doesn’t she know about?_

“Wasn’t for him. I figured mentioning your brother’s name would get the wheels off the ground quicker.”

And so it had. Though it had also left Piers with the sinking feeling that he’d be explaining himself to the Director for misuse of B.S.A.A resources come debrief. _We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,_ he thought.

It’d be a messy bridge, full of procedural infractions and budget violations for him to talk his way out of.

Claire chuckled. “ _Good thinking._ ”

“I have my moments.”

“ _Piers,_ ” she said. Chided, really. The younger sister she might be, but Claire was still a Redfield, and that by itself amounted to something. It came with a certain presence that the siblings shared, different as they may be. It worked. Even through the phone and spotty coverage.

_“You’ve done good.”_

He stepped away from the painting he’d been staring at and forced a “Thank you.”

You’d think he’d take the compliment, maybe even bask in it for a moment or two. Except he didn’t quite _feel_ it. He would have done way better than _good_ if only people had helped. Piers curbed the irritation working up a knot at the base of his throat, and started making his way back along the hallway.

“I just wish he’d made it easier.” _Along with everyone else._

The jab went wide.

 _”Chris never made things_ easy _,”_ she said.

 _SQUEAK_ , the linoleum floor went. Piers winced.

“He makes them _look_ easy enough.”

Piers rounded the corner to yet another narrow hall. This one stood lined with rickety looking plastic chairs and a sad looking shrub of unidentifiable plant life collecting dust on its drooping leaves. Chris Redfield sat next to the pot of greenery, head bent forward and elbows resting on his knees.

They made for an unhappy pair.

Piers glanced at the phone. Should he? No. Too _complicated_ still. A little rest before he talked to his sister would do the man good, give him time to think on how to best answer all her questions.

“Let’s talk later,” he told Claire and hung up just as Chris turned his head at the sound of the approach. A confused frown creased his brow and he sat a little straighter.

His movements were sluggish. Weary. Chris looked beat. He’d dusted most of the sand and dirt off himself and borrowed a shirt, but none of that made much of a difference.

The last few hours had not been kind on him. Or maybe it had been the last two months. Both. Either or. He couldn’t really tell.

Piers watched as Chris rolled his shoulders in an attempt to relax stiff muscles, likely sore from thirty-something minutes which he’d spent keeping that girl at the brink of death.

_Sadja._

That had been the girl’s name. Sadja Shielding.

When her call had come seven hours ago, Piers had told her he’d kill her. He’d been graphic about it too, though not necessarily very creative. To his defence, she’d just jolted him from his sleep, and with his mind still unwilling to let go of a pleasant dream involving copious amounts of things better left unspoken, thoughts of murder had come slow.

 _”I’m flattered. I really am, Neevanz,”_ she’d told him and then went on to taunt him with the promise of an end to a long and tiring chase. Her promise had led him halfway across Europe, with not even enough time to spare for a coffee to go.

Piers frowned. All right, the chase was over. It just hadn’t ended how he’d expected it to.

He cleared his throat. “Captain.”

In all fairness, Chris Redfield didn’t hold rank over him. Not for the time being, at any rate. As a suspended member of a fractured SOU, he didn’t hold much of anything. There was respect, of course. He had earned enough of that to last him a lifetime. _And then some._ Besides, Piers found it difficult to shake old habits, in particular one that felt as right as this one.

“Yeah?”

“We need to get you on a plane home.”

Chris nodded faintly. A good enough sign, long as one didn’t expect too much right away. Baby steps, or some such things, Piers reassured himself and watched Chris climb to his feet.

Then the Captain pinched the bridge of his nose and let his eyes cut down the hall. He shook his head, like he was trying to shake off a dizzy spell, and exhaled a long, pained sigh.

“You didn’t hear that, did you, Piers?”

Piers frowned. “Hear what, Sir?”

“I figured.”

A desperate grunt later, Chris started briskly marching down the hall, straight for the door that a group of nurses had carted the Shielding girl through.

“Captain, what is going o—“ Then a woman screamed and Chris broke into a run.

Piers rushed after him.

The door thumped against its frame. One shudder, two shudders, until _THUMP_ number three flung it wide open. A nurse came crashing into the hall, all blue scrubs, white stockings and looking quite _french_.

Piers didn’t speak French. He’d never had to. It was Chris who got around in a few languages, having spent a good portion of his life in Europe, but Piers had never quite had the incentive to bother with the finer points of international relations. Sure, he could _Bonjour_ and _Merci_. If he really had to he’d _S’il vous plaît_ proficiently enough, too. Though none of those did him any good right here and now. The nurse that came bolting down the hall cried for God knew what.

Chris ignored her. He caught his sprint on the doorframe, cutting into the room and out of sight, leaving Piers to grab the panicked woman before she ran past. She babbled, her words frantic. How she still managed to sound so damn friendly was beyond him, though she wasn’t making any sense.

“Slow down,” he told her and tried to pull her along and back towards the door. She kept ranting her polite, french panic at him, and started jabbing her hand at the door.

“Slo—Hey- _Hey_. Slow. Down.”

The nurse wheezed, a pitiful little squeal, but then she composed herself and told him, with an accent so thick Piers thought he might have just fallen in love, that: “She _bit_ him.”

“What?”

“She _BIT_ the chirurgien. And she— she— l'a _poignardé_ —“

Bit? Someone had— _Oh, fuck’s sake Captain… Couldn’t you just have washed up at a bar or something?_

* * *

 **C** hris wasn’t particularly getting along with his arms.

Seven hours ago they’d been hard at work, and now they were ready to separate from his aching shoulders. His head wasn’t off much better, still heavy with the buzz of exhaustion. First the beach. Then the helicopter ride, with all the ” _We have a pulse._ ” and ” _We’re losing her_.” while he sat idly by not quite knowing what to do with himself.

He needed sleep after all of this. Needed peace. Maybe a bit of well deserved solitude, and a drink if he would be so lucky. No, he couldn’t rest. Not yet. There was a liar that he’d not given permission to die, but who was adamant to try and do so anyway. She was stubborn like that. Complicated.

 _Don’t be dead,_ he caught himself thinking, and waived his hopes of rest.

“Captain?”

He looked at Piers hovering close by. “Yeah?”

The poor boy was walking on eggshells around him. Like he expected a single wrong word to bring about a relapse of whatever had driven Chris away in the first place. The unease had kept their conversations to curt one-liners, both unsure where the other stood. Piers was itching to accuse him, Chris figured. Call him out for desertion, for abandoning his duty. Amongst other things, none of which were very flattering.

Not like he had to, really. With nothing but his thoughts and a suspicious Piers for company, Chris had found the last few hours ripe with chance to pile the blame of things on himself. Questioning his decisions came easy, judging himself even more so.

He’d cut and run.

Or cut and _walked_ , rather.

Walked away from things that mattered, without a look over his shoulder. How did you go about _fixing_ all he’d abandoned? Let alone get his life back.   _Or at least salvage what’s left of it._

He tried to convince himself that he could. Though obviously not from here, and not while he worried about the dying liar.

“We need to get you on a plane home,” Piers suggested, as if he’d just read his mind. Chris nodded, more out of reflex than agreement, and climbed to his feet.

It felt better standing up. Maybe he should take a walk. Up the hallway, or down the hallway, didn’t really matter as long as he moved his legs. He might as well take a peek into the O.R.

 _She’ll be fine. She’ll live,_ he told himself, when sharp pain lanced through his thoughts, shearing them in half. Chris winced, pinched the bridge of his nose, and tried to ignore the distressed echoes of a timid voice slinking through the silence of the hallway.

Sleep. Yes. He needed sleep. That was it.

Then the nonsensical words playing tricks on his ears turned to the throaty snarl of something large and unpleasant, and the hope that he’d been imagining things crumbled.

“You didn’t hear that, did you, Piers?”

Chris felt the hairs at the back of his neck stand at rapt attention against a hidden threat. Just like at the beach, where he could have sworn he’d been _trapped_ in a small room with something unseen and dangerous stalking him. Stalking _through_ him. An entity made of pure wrath, ready to tear him to pieces.

“Hear what, Sir?”

Did he really have to make the _Sir_ sound so sceptical? Of course. His Captain was losing his mind right in front of him.

“I figured.”

When the snarl turned to a desperate, thrashing wail, Chris started walking briskly. And when a woman screamed, he broke into a run.

* * *

  **P** iers wished they’d have let him bring his sidearm. It would have helped when he rushed into the room, might have made him feel less exposed. A sharp mix of disinfectant and anaesthetics filled the brightly lit room, but the smell didn’t bother Piers, and neither did the chaos. Compared to what he was used to, the whole lot was relatively tame.

Two panicked nurses huddled in a corner behind a turned over instrument table, its utensils scattered across the floor. The surgeon had backed himself against the wall. He was clutching his neck. Blood welled from between his fingers. More crimson bloomed on his white surgical dress, just below his left collarbone. Right about where the heart was.

Life support equipment beeped with alarm. The nurses cried in French. Noise and movement fluttered about the room— but his attention snapped to the patient. And stayed there.

She should have been lying on the operating table in the centre of the room. Hooked up to machines. Under. Unmoving. Dying. Maybe dead. Instead, she sat in the corner on the left and screamed nonsense.

And Captain Redfield stood between Piers and her, effectively blocking his view.

“Sadja. Look at me,” he said while he held his arms spread slightly, hands turned out in a placating gesture.

It didn’t working. She still yapped gibberish.

Right about then, Piers _really_ wanted his gun as he stepped further into the room, circling Chris and putting himself between the raving girl and the civilians.

Raving and naked, it turned out.

Bloody smears covered her wiry arms. She’d torn herself free from the table, ripping out the IVs that should have been pumping anaesthetics into her. One tube still dangled from her left forearm, dragging across the floor. Blood trailed along with it. Her other arm hung limp by her side, tinted blue and red.

How was she _moving_ ? How the hell was she _awake_ ? A clavicle fracture, right arm broken in three places, ribs snapped off the sternum, ribs cracked. Internal bleeding. And, his favourite on the list, a brain haemorrhage that had been about to kill her. She should be out cold. She should be _dead_.

The left side of her skull had been shaved and swathed it in orange disinfectant, with a blue circle marking the spot where they’d started drilling in an attempt to save her life. Blood ran freely from the fresh wound. Except they weren’t drilling any more, since she’d snatched the drill from them and was jabbing it at Chris.

How the _fuck_ was she awake?

Her movements were erratic, skittish. She lunged at Chris. He didn’t budge and the lunge turned into a stagger, with her good arm twitching while she held the drill tightly in a white knuckled grip. A frustrated hiss squeezed from between her teeth and she recoiled away from the Captain, turned her attention to the nurses instead. She snarled.

“Put that thing down,” Chris said as he inched closer. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

She ignored him. Her head tilted and amber eyes flashed at Piers from across the room. He didn’t like how her shoulders twisted, or how her body coiled. It looked a little too much as if she was considering leaping over the table so she could stab him with the bloodied drill.

 _Okay, but — how is she AWAKE?_ He could think of a few reasons why, of course. Had seen stranger things. Working for the B.S.A.A exposed you to possibilities, and Piers disliked all of them. Again he wished they’d let him bring his damn gun.

Well, he’d have to work with what he got, which for the time being seemed to be nothing at all. He shot a look over his shoulder. First things first then.  _Civilians. Out._ A quick wave was all it took and they ran from the room, keeping to the wall with him between them and the crazed girl.

She tracked them fleeing.

_And now?_

Her head snapped back to him.

_Don’t get stabbed._

The wild, frantic stare focused. She narrowed her eyes, coiled, and made to dash for the table. She was a tangle of pale limbs painted red, and she moved way too fast for someone who shouldn’t be moving at all.

“Sadja. _Stop!_ ”

Chris dove to the right. She faltered. Her shoulder knocked into the table and her head turned sharply back to Chris.

Piers shifted his weight. If he reached across he could grab her. Get her left arm, wrangle the drill from her. Should be easy enough. He took a step forward, ready to throw himself over the table, only for Chris to raise a hand in warning.

She saw that, too. Her mouth twisted, pale lips tightly pressed together, and if he didn’t know better he thought she had started growling.

“Stand down,” Captain Redfield told the both of them, and they did. More or less. He exhaled with frustration, and she withdrew from the table to slink back into her corner. Chris followed her retreat, but not before he snatched a sheet from the table.

“Give me that.” Chris tilted his head towards the drill. She scowled at him.

“ _Sadja_.” There was no room for argument in the Captain’s voice. No _buts_ or _maybes_. A stern stare was levelled at her, unyielding and stubborn. She met it with her own, with her shoulders squared and cursing him with gibberish worse than any French Piers had ever heard. Or any other language he could possibly think of, for that matter.

Chris drew closer, one hand extended, waiting for her to offer up her weapon. Each step made him an easier target. Soon all she’d have to do is jab once and she’d catch his throat with the thing. She glared fiercely at the hand, rather than stabbing Chris. Then she turned to glare at Piers.

Scared. She was scared. Terrified even, he realised. Much like a cornered animal that couldn’t make sense of what was happening to it. She looked the part, too. Bloody and pale, with an angry scar lines dragging across her arms, and more of the same cutting down her front.

Her grip on the drill loosened. It dropped to the floor.

“Okay. That will do,” Chris muttered. Not what he’d wanted, but he closed the distance between them anyway, and wrapped the sheet around her twitching body. The drill he kicked away from her. It skittered across the floor and under the table.

She twitched and whimpered. Then he trapped her arms under the cloth and pulled it tight enough to restrict her movements, and she started to complain in earnest. First it was just the subdued little whimpers, then harsh words while her neck craned left and right as if she was having a go at wiggling herself free.

“Don’t,” Chris warned. Her fidgeting stopped and her slim shoulders dropped in defeat. She sighed and stared at Chris, amber eyes still wide and frightful. Captain Redfield stared back, his brow pinched with concern. He reached around her, tugged the end of the sheet to her front.

“Hold on to that,” he told her.

A trembling hand darted out and she did as told.

“Now stay here. Don’t move a muscle.”

She blinked. His brow arched. She blinked again. Slower this time.

Piers exhaled. He’d not realised that he’d been holding his breath as he’d watched the spectacle in front of him. Now that it seemed settled, he didn’t quite know what to make of it.

Chris got to his feet. The girl stayed put. It seemed to him that she was indeed not moving a single muscle. Just as she’d been told to.

“About that plane, Piers?”

He straightened up. This _had_ all just happened, hadn’t it? He hadn’t just dreamed it up, naked girl with a drill bit, who bit surgeons and spoke in tongues. It certainly seemed that Chris had forgotten about it already, gotten right back to where they’d been before, and carried on with his life.

_Seriously, Captain. What’s wrong with washing up in a seedy bar somewhere?_

Piers looked down at the girl.

“I’m not leaving her here,” Chris stated matter of fact.

No, he wouldn’t, would he? Why-fucking-ever would he? Why not make his life a little more difficult still? Piers toyed briefly with the thought of giving him a lecture, remind him of the amount of fuckery he’d already had to deal with to find him, and the yet to be determined pile of it waiting at the end of this never-ending errand. Instead he nodded, one hand already fishing for his battered phone with its monstrous international calling fees.

This would take some convincing. Luckily for Chris and his new _friend_ , Piers had learned quite a bit about being just that the last two months.

First things first though: “Clothes.”

Chris raised an eyebrow at him.

“We should find her clothes,” Piers clarified.


	27. Collared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sadja finds herself thoroughly disappointed that she's mucked up dying.

**COLLARED**

* * *

  _”Say, Redfield…” Sadja sat upside down, with the world busted to pieces below her. Bits of it floated towards her, slices and gobs orbiting each other, only to drift apart and turn themselves inside out. They turned to worlds of their own, gave birth to civilisations that cried to see a sense in things, only to shatter apart as their homes burst once more, too heavy from all the responsibility of carrying oh so many lives._

_”Hm?”_

_She looked left at the man that hadn’t listened when he should have. Stubborn oaf, that one, with a deaf heart and a blind set of gears for brains. They clicked and rattled and tore tracks of nonsense through her. Why had he brought an anchor when she’d asked for that thing he’d come riding in on?_

_”You shouldn’t have,” she told him. “I wouldn’t have.”_

CLICK.

_”Hm?”_

_He was deaf, so he didn’t hear. Blind, so he didn’t see._

CLICK.

_”Say, Redfield…”_

_”Hm?”_

_”Why didn’t he just_ not _dig it up? They’d have never gotten that… ark… thing, if he’d not bothered.”_

CLICK.

 _CLICK_.

Sadja woke down-right famished. Ravenous, really, with her stomach ready to accept a bag of nails for a treat. Preferably rusty ones, since they likely tasted a little better.

She swallowed. _Dry throat._

She rasped next, and that hurt, much like the bag of nails might going down. _Correction, very dry throat._

 _CLICK_.

_Yes, I get it. Open those blinkers._

Her head turned towards the noise and she allowed her heavy eyelids a brief battle of defiance. They eventually gave up and fluttered open, showing her a wall. It had a window. That window was covered by a sheet of see-through white curtains, which gave the occasional flick as air rippled through them.

 _CLICK._ the window behind them went whenever it was pushed against the frame. Then it sighed as it was popped open again, and another brush of warm air snuck in.

Sadja sniffed. The place smelled horrid. Too clean. Someone had gone and spilled disinfectants someplace, and then robbed all furniture of colour. Whites bumped up against other shades of white, and bleak metal reflected the light pouring in through the window. Careful and wary, she swung her gates open, stuck her head out. Bland out there, too. Good as empty, with a flock of tame souls milling about at the far edges of her widely cast self.

“Still not dead,” Sadja whispered, her voice scratching its way up her throat as if it had come out of fashion at some point.

Something must have gone terribly wrong. You didn’t get to wake from death, that’d defeat the whole purpose of it. It was a sort of thing meant to be permanent. Final. Not fleeting, leaving her feeling hungry and thirsty, and her head thickly stuffed with a stale ache.

Sadja rolled her head up, stared at the ceiling, and gathered herself in close, her gates drawing shut. Her chest felt like she’d swallowed a balloon, one pumped full of air. Her right arm was a little numb.

But she was _fine._

“Can’t even get that right, can you? That dying thing.”

The room answered with silence, at least until she tried to lift her arms and heard the telltale chime of metal sliding against metal, and felt the tug on her wrists.

“You’ve got to be...”

Both her hands had been shackled to the metal frame of the bed. The irons were snagged fairly tight, though not necessarily uncomfortably so. Like someone had gone out of their way to get them on without causing her too much of a bother. Except being shackled, that was a bother on its own.

She glared at the irons fastened above her left wrist and gave her hand a futile twist this way and that. As she did so, thick blue letters running up her forearm caught her eye.

 **_Push the button_ ** they spelled. A simple arrow pointed left, into the general direction of a small, flat box that sat wedged between mattress and bed frame. It had three buttons. Sadja wiggled the thing free and pushed them all. For a while, nothing happened, and she was left alone, awake, and with a head crowded with questions and equally questionable answers.

Not dead.

_No longer dying._

She didn’t know what gave it away, what told her that something was _missing._ A noise, maybe, or pressure that she’d gotten used to and not thought twice of for too long. Whatever the case, it was no more. The _Wasting_ was simply _gone_. It bothered her.

Sadja took that thought, wrapped it tight in a blanket, tied it firmly with rope, and drowned it in a river where unwelcome ideas went to die.

She pulled on her shackles again. Reasonably lose or not, now that she was awake she couldn’t _not_ notice them. How they rubbed against her skin, how they rattled against the frame, and constricted her movement. They wouldn’t let her do a bloody thing. Frustrated, Sadja kicked her feet. Even the light sheet covering her began to feel heavier with each passing heartbeat. She kicked until she had it down to her waist, revealing a plain white shirt and wide grey slacks. At least the _Whoever_ who had put her in irons, had also shown the decency to give her some proper clothing.

_If only I know such a valiant Oaf._

It was a guess of course. Redfield might not have anything to do with any of this. Though Sadja thought it was a _good_ guess, if one were to ask. Nevermind that there wasn’t anyone to ask around. She pushed the buttons again, then once more for good measure, holding them down longer this time around.

Her irritation roused the beast. It pried at its cage, spitting unfounded anger through the bars.

 _Yes, let’s hate everything. The irons, the sheet, the bed, the clothes, let’s hate the whole bloody world while we are at it. Nothing unfortunate has ever come from that,_ Sadja tried to reason with herself.

Then the door opened, and the beast withdrew with a snap of its tail and dove back into the shadowy confines of its cage. Like it had gotten spooked into a sudden retreat, one that left Sadja with a confused little hitch at the base of her throat. Someone had, quite obviously, just told her she’d been a bad girl and should feel terribly ashamed of herself. Very terribly.

 _Interesting,_ she admitted and looked up.

Redfield stepped into the room, carefully too, like he was worried he might snap a twig underfoot. Behind him, the Nivans character slipped in and promptly closed the door behind them.

Redfield was giving her the same calculated look he’d worn back in Edonia, back at her crib, and back when he’d been about to dump her in a motel. He approached, and for reasons unknown to Sadja, she flinched.

It wasn’t because he looked mean. No, she had to admit he looked anything but. He’d cleaned up (though not that she thought he’d been necessarily dirty before), with his hair cut shorter and a decent trim to the beard.

_You look all civilised, Redfield. Rested, one might say, if one might be so bold._

Dark grey uniform slacks were belted to his waist, with a badge of sorts stuck to said belt, and the short sleeved, tan shirt he wore seemed a comfortable fit. It carried an emblem stitched to the right arm.

 _BeeEssAyAy_ and something about a _North American Branch_ the thing said.

When he caught her looking at it, his shoulders relaxed. His steps came easier too and carried him quickly to the side of her bed.

“He wants to kill me, you know,” Sadja told him and nodded her head toward Nivans. It was the truth, and nothing but, because even with her gates shut, the seething mistrust out there was plain as day.

Redfield smiled. Not his gruff smile, or that poor excuse for one that he’d liked before. The rare sort, genuine and warm.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he said. A statement. A truth. Hope taken flight on the wings of reality, as if he’d doubted she’d be.

Behind him, Nivans bristled and folded his arms, a defiant glare levelled at her. She thought he might have even nodded. Agreed to her assessment of the situation. No way to be certain though, since Redfield moved to block her view, all chest and neck and shoulder pushing in close. He sat at the edge of the bed and leaned over her, once again taking up way more space than he should rightfully be allowed to. The scent of rainy days came with him, fighting the sharp, clinical stench of her room, and Sadja exhaled, curled her fingers against her palms and let her hands sink back down. The shackles chimed against the metal frame. He went for the set on her right hand first.

“Sorry for the cuffs.” He sounded sincere.

“I’ll give it a thought.”

“They insisted.”

Sadja pushed her head back into the pillow and turned it to watch him slide a tiny key home.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Redfield?” She could make an educated prediction on it, but it never hurt to ask. He twisted the key. She loved the little click it made. Sounded like freedom.

“You’ve not been yourself the last few days.”

“Mh. Fair enough.”

His hand lifted the shackle apart and slipped it off her wrist.

 _Sweet Elaya’s mercy, that feels nice._ And it did. No telling really how long she’d been bound to that plain bed with its perfect white sheets, all course and smelling of nothing whatsoever, since it was just too clean to show any character at all. She wanted to rub at the irritated skin, but her left hand wasn’t going anywhere yet, and when she gave it a quick tug, Redfield only withdrew slightly and peered down at her. Sadja stared back at him and took a careful gander through a crack in her gates.

By the door was the raging mistrust that was Nivans, but she ignored the sour taste and focused on the familiar heat that wrapped around her. Redfield was still a furnace. However long she’d spent drooling onto a pillow hadn’t been enough to douse that. It was a controlled burn now at least, tightly woven into the imposing shadow of what amounted to his presence. Low burning embers, still hot, but less messy. Less pain too.

For three-or-so heartbeats, Redfield stared at her. Pensive silence accompanied him, stretched across the Verge and sat between them. Sadja suppressed a smile. He was holding his breath. Not here, in front of her, not him, the person.

The _him_ that sat by her gates, embers and all. It was a thing people did, and it was significant. No one had ever explained to her what it _meant_ , or how one went about doing it. It was just a thing that happened, and when it did, it _mattered_. She had her theories of course. Every _Cad’his_ did, though there wasn’t really any way to prove them.

So she went with the abundance of heart in his muddy blue eyes. They asked _You alright?_ without the need for words, and Sadja wondered if he expected her to answer. Somehow. With a nod maybe, or a _”Yessir, all’s good”_ , but that was ridiculous.

She craned her neck. Heart or not, if you looked closer, you could still see the storm raging there, the one that craved vengeance more than peace of mind. The softened glance could quickly turn into a hard glare, she figured.

_A-right. Enough of that._

Sadja growled and snapped her teeth at the empty air between them.

“Captain…” Nivans ranted from the door. He moved closer. She could hear how his foot landed on the smooth, clean floor. A quick glance his way confirmed that his folded arms had dropped to his side and he was ready to stride across the room and put an end to her before she could tear out Redfield’s throat. If he’d had his weapon with him it’d be pointed her way right about now.

_Adorable._

“She doesn’t bite, Piers.” Redfield told him, but the young man was not convinced.

 _Liar._ Sadja smirked.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Nivans asked. He probably knew better too.

Redfield scoffed. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Mh. Brilliant idea,” Sadja agreed, and earned herself another smile. This one was a bit fainter, back to what she’d grown used to. He sat up straight and took the key to work on the remaining shackles. _CLICK_ it went, and the pressure finally fell away. Curious eyes turned to her arm and an equally curious finger took a hike towards the writing on her skin. He rubbed at it and she liked the firm touch. Warm. Daring. So much better than the dead metal. The letters faded.

“Your idea?” She asked.

He nodded. “Wasn’t sure it’d work.”

Sadja sniffed. “How long was I out?“

Redfield looked up at her again. He hesitated.

“Quite a while.”

“Come on, Redfield. Details.”

Sadja sat up. The single motion felt deliriously nice. And it only got better once she started rolling her neck and lifting her arms above her head. Arching her back though? Now that was downright criminal.

When her hands landed on her itching skull, the pleasure made way for surprise. Short clipped hair rubbed against her palms, neat and even.  _Oh bollocks. This is going to take forever to grow back._

“You want to get out of here?”

“Do I ever. But tell me, Redfield, will he let me?” She let her eyes cut towards Nivans, who had folded his arms again. He looked more confused now than downright hostile.

“Yeah. He will,” Redfield reassured her and got to his feet. He nodded towards the door, and Nivans, with a barely audible sigh, opened it up.

“You might want this back, by the way.” He slid a metal drawer to one of the trolleys around the bed ajar, then pinched out her _barr_ , along with a book. Sadja accepted both. And being the ever curious fledgling Keeper that she was, she flipped the book open. It was empty.

“Here,” Redfield offered. A pen landed on the pages. Sadja caught it before it could slide out at the bottom.

_Bastard._

She sniffed. “Redfield, I wanted to be mad at you. Raving mad. Tearing the heavens down and shoving Hell up your backside, that sort of mad. Now look what you’ve done. I’m about to hug you, unless you think I rather shouldn’t, since Neevanz might come rescue you.”

“You wanted to what now?”

“Hug you.”

“Not that.”

Sadja snapped the book shut. She looked up at him. A puzzled pinch drew his brows together, but they unknotted when she parted with a quick, disarming smile.

“Never-you-mind.” She kicked off the sheets, and, while holding the pleasant surprises to her chest, climbed from the bed.

“But say, Redfield… do they have food here?”

* * *

 

> ❛ **_Day 68._ **
> 
> _17 nights and 16 days. That is how long this useless, fledgling of a Keeper spent out cold. Not out_ enough _, if you’d ask Redfield, who so valiantly came to my rescue._
> 
> _A rescue that, I have to admit, I still cannot wrap my head around. Just_ how _did he do it? I was_ dead _, for crying out loud. The Wasting came and went. It took with it the last beat of my heart. It left me broken and bleeding. Both, by all rights, should have concluded in things being very much over._
> 
> _Redfield found me, he said, in the nick of time. He also said he hadn’t been the first to do so, that a man had pulled me from the burning wreckage, and placed me in the sand. A good samaritan who fled the scene when he arrived. He knows better, of course. The furnace has a decent head on his shoulders, he just really doesn’t want to jeopardise the sanity he’s been so carefully rebuilding the last few days. Might be he’ll ask me about it one day, or I’ll decide to tell. Or might be he doesn’t and I don’t. We’ll see._
> 
> _Personally, I’ve got a good idea on who the mystery rider, as Redfield so calls him, might have been. What I_ don’t _get is how he got here. No, that’s not true. He gets around, that’s his thing. But how did he find me? And just WHY would he leave me dying?_
> 
> _What has the Pariah done?_
> 
> _Further prodding of the matter revealed that there’d been a circle of metal rods surrounding me. And string. Voidmite and threads of woven_ barr _if this dunce is allowed speculating. Nathric slowed my death, rather than preventing it, and trapped my soul so it’d be easier to wrangle back into my body._
> 
> _Silly me. Of course. If I’d been gone too far already, then nothing he could have done would have saved me. To bring back a fleeing soul one must have a soul themselves, one to draw it back in, to anchor it to the body until Lady Death has decided if she can be arsed to give up the fight._
> 
> _By all rights I should be grateful for what he’s done. For what_ they _have done._
> 
> _Instead, I’m angry. Furious._ Disappointed _._
> 
> _Poppycock_.
> 
> **_Day 69_ **
> 
> _Still angry._
> 
> **_Day 70_ **
> 
> ”What is it, Shielding?” _he asked and shoved a cup of coffee over the table. Next to him, Nivans was glaring that glare that he sorted on his face permanently whenever I’m around._
> 
> _I didn’t know what to say. Because what is there to say. I thanked him for saving me. I thanked him, and I meant it. It’s polite to be grateful when someone pulls you from Lady Death’s cold embrace. Tactful. Yet, here I am. Not feeling it._
> 
> **_Day 71_ **
> 
> _The pesky Beast woke first. It threw itself off the bed, right onto a doctor of sorts, and took a bite out of his neck. Redfield was near, thankfully, or they’d have put me down, he said._ Put me down. _Another chance at release, another one lost._
> 
> _So at least I know what happened when he saved me, but I do not know how he_ cured _me. Or if it even was him, how would I ever know? Not too long ago I’d thought nothing could ever tear the Wasting away from me. Which raises the question: Did I ever really believe the Cataract could help? What did I come looking for, if not for another chance?_
> 
> _Doesn’t matter now though. The Wasting is gone, and my impossible Ceat with it._
> 
> _Redfield is free to wander now. I don’t need him to stay close any more, don’t need him to burn Ceat’s chill away._
> 
> _Don’t need him._
> 
> _Period._
> 
> _You could argue I should be glad. Ecstatic even. No longer being bound to the Furnace by a flimsy promise of survival, means I’m free to go wherever I want. I could leave this here place. This_ England _, as Redfield calls it._
> 
> _He had them take me here after the beast came tearing from its cage and did what the beast so does. Knit me together. Cackle. Thoroughly wreck the scenery._
> 
> _It’s where things of importance happen, where the whole_ BeeEssAyAy _has its centre of operations. They tucked me away there, kept me under lock and key, with Redfield the ever watchful guardian._
> 
> _So what if I leave?_
> 
> _Well, first of all I’d have to slip out from under those eyes turned my way. I’m a reluctant guest, amongst equally reluctant hosts._ Some _are excited enough, eager to shuffle in close, trying to figure me out. They come loaded with questions and armed with needles. Redfield shoos them away. Whether he does it for my sake, for theirs, or to protect his own sanity I do not know. A combination of the lot, maybe? Either way, they don’t trust me. I cannot blame them._
> 
> _They might even give chase if I run. Except I wouldn’t know where to bloody go. A flight like that, blind, is likely to end in tears. Bitter tears for all parties involved. Still. I’d figure it out. I always do._
> 
> _So, I ask again, infuriatingly indecisive fledging Keeper, why don’t you leave?_
> 
> **_Day 72_ **
> 
> _Still haven’t figured out if I should tell him. Redfield’s unwanted rescue, him keeping my body afloat while he anchored my soul in place, did more than just save my life._
> 
> _At first I thought it a coincidence, a mere side effect of the beast being weary after it ran the show for a solid two turns. That’s longer, I might add, than it’s ever gotten to lumber about outside of its cage. By now though, with nothing to do but_ think _(since they won’t let me step outside this place) I’m inclined to suspect Redfield’s actions had consequences._
> 
> _Try as I might, I cannot think of a way to go about telling him._
> 
> _The straight forward approach, maybe?_
> 
> _”Redfield, there’s something you ought to know.”_ “What’s that?” _”When you kept me from dying, you sort of gone and put a leash on me. No, no. Not like that, you frisky bastard. That’s just wrong, thought it’d be miles less complicated. See, it’s the beast you snapped the collar on. Remember that pesky thing that tried to rip your throat out? Yeah, that’s the one.”_
> 
> _Ugh. However do you explain such a thing? I could wait and see if he figures it out. He’s surprised me before. Might be he’ll do it again. After all, he_ must _have noticed how it stopped its shenanigans when he told it to. Ceased its chomping down on a doctor on his behest. Or how it stayed put whenever he barked at it, or would mind its own business until he’d return._
> 
> _It wasn’t me there, and he knows that._
> 
> **_Day 73_ **
> 
> _Today they advised me that I got a thing called_ Dissociative Identity Disorder _. Fair enough. We call it_ Two-Faced _. A misleading name, since you tend to carry more than one face around with you, all of them vying for your attention. They also let me know I might be_ schizophrenic _, which sounded a lot like being_ Hell Struck _. That’d be when things imaginary become real, and truth turns to figment._
> 
> _I fail to agree on accounts of both. When I tried to explain (because really now, this fledging Keeper has her pride), Redfield gave me that_ look _again. That_ Shut up, I already have a headache, don’t need another _-look._
> 
> _Not like it matters. He understands already. I let the matter rest, since I care little about the others and what they might think. Those_ Techs _as he calls them. The BeeEssAyAy brains, whereas he is the brawn. Okay, so I made that one up. It’s fitting though._
> 
> _Regardless, maybe there really isn’t a difference, and those brainy men and women have it right. Could be I just never stopped long enough to think of the_ Beast _as something else than a personal demon._
> 
> _Nivans, of course, seems to think it makes me a liability. Then again, there isn’t a thing about me that the boy doesn’t consider just that._
> 
> _Redfield, he disagrees, says I’ve got it under control._
> 
> ”And when she doesn’t?” _Nivans insisted._
> 
> ”Then _I’ve_ got it,” _was Redfield’s answer._
> 
> _I believe him._
> 
> **_Day 74_ **
> 
> ”I was cleared for duty today.” _He looked…_ ruffled _when he said that. Like he couldn’t decide if he should be elated about the decision, or worried sick. Worried that he wouldn’t be able to cut it. To finish what he’d set out to do._
> 
> _I let him stare at me, with that out at sea desperation clinging to his soul._
> 
> _Right. So that’s why I still haven’t left. It took the uncertainty of a steadfast man to remind me that I still have a job to do. A mission, if you will. I won’t be doing it for the Cataract. Far as I am concerned, that cunt can still wrap itself around Hell._
> 
> _Redfield though? He’s grown on me. Would be a damn shame if something happened to him. Especially after all that trouble I went through to keep him from drinking himself to his grave._


	28. Bipolar Attachments

**BIPOLAR ATTACHMENTS**

* * *

>   
>  ❛ **_Day 77_ **
> 
> _Being cleared for duty didn’t mean what I expected it to. Redfield didn’t pull on his boots and uniform. Neither did he weigh himself down with their shiny weapon pieces and march off to wage his war. For now, all it meant was that he got to go_ home _._
> 
> _Home, as it happened, is across that_ Atlantic _thing. That big blue blob of ocean._ ❜
> 
>  

**S** adja yawned. She propped her knees up against the backrest in front of her, one hand keeping her journal in place and the other sending the pen dashing across her knuckles. To her left, a small bull hole for a window granted her a look at the world sprawled out beneath them. This wasn’t her first time up in the skies. Once, when the _Seditio_ had still been able to climb for the stars, Sinvik had taken her up, far beyond the reaches of any bird. Right to the edge of the world. And then a little farther still, until Trero had spun away from them, and turned into a blue marble, a strip of colour belting it around the middle. The sight had stolen Sadja’s breath. She’d stood by the narrow window, forehead pressed to the cold glass, and stared down at her home spinning slowly against a backdrop of black velvet.

It had been the ship’s last ascent. After that, it’d dug into the ground. Had turned into a bit of a home for the Shielding women— whenever Sinvik felt nostalgic and needed to flee the court and her duty as a Keeper.

Sitting here, in a metal beastie with its belly stuffed full of people, wasn’t the same, but it was no less dazzling.

A mirror of deep blue winked with the rising sun’s rays gracing it. Pretty, she had to admit. Even more so now that the vast blue nuzzled up against the dirty greens and browns of a coastline. Wispy clouds collected above the landmass, their white surfaces alight with the dawn’s strong pinks.

❛ _See, Redfield —_ ❜ She cast a glance to her right, where the quiet furnace sat with his eyes closed. A fat sleeve of papers lay across his lap. He kept both hands folded over it, as if it might start flapping its contents and take flight. ❛ _— you said we couldn’t get across your_ Atlantic _, now look where we are. All it took was a bit of patience, a little luck, and one meagre death._

 _Though let me tell you one thing, I’m hating your_ airports _. Too crowded. Too loud. Too_ frantic _. Everyone’s in a hurry to get somewhere, creating one great tide of rushed souls, churning around islands of exhaustion and fret._

_There was also mistrust._

_Fear._

_I felt it skirting my gates, cropping up here and there while Redfield herded me through the masses. But it never seemed to have much of a direction. As if no one knew just what they were supposed to be frightened off, yet clung to the terror regardless._

“Why are people so worked up?” _I asked Redfield and Nivans while we waited in yet another line. They both looked at me funny._

_My question was answered once we reached the end of that line, where a man stood in a box and waited to receive our paper things that tell people who you are. Redfield kept me by his side when he handed them over, so I got to see the man turn his eyes up at him._

”B.S.A.A,” _he said and gave a grateful smile._ ”We can’t thank you lads enough. Queen and country and the whole bloody world are in your dept.”

 _Redfield just nodded at the fellow, took our papers back, and continued his herding of yours truly. For someone who’d just gotten himself a big compliment for putting his life on the line for those less apt, he certainly didn’t look fuzzed. Maybe it was the guilt of abandoning his post, or some other such honour code nonsense, I don’t know. I_ did _tell him though that I thought he should be a more gracious hero. He told me to_ ”Walk.”

 _Arse._ ❜

“What you writing?”

Sadja paused. Redfield and rest, that sad pair. They’d had a falling out again, brought about by the pretty face in the pages on his lap. Sadja sniffed.

“I’m documenting the marvels of your flying metal beasties with their tummies full of people. It’s quite astonishing, really.”

He cracked an eye open. Now there was a sceptical glance, all doubting her truthfulness. Rightfully so.

“Say, Redfield—“ She folded the journal shut and turned to face him. “—how long until I can get out of this dreadful thing and stretch my legs?”

“Soon.”

Her eyebrow arched. “Will I get tied to a bed again then?”

He rewarded her a stony faced look and decided not to answer.

* * *

 **T** hey’d traveled in silence. Mostly. Piers didn’t count the Shielding girl’s complaining of having to sit still during the 9 hour flight, and he hadn’t gotten many words out of Captain Redfield since they’d left the UK. The man had preferred the company of a binder of documents which Piers had handed him when they’d boarded their plane. Something he sincerely regretted doing.

Out of the air, and clear of the airport, and Chris _still_ carried the damn thing at hand. Piers suspected he had already committed most of its contents to memory, the way he diligently went over every single page.

Ada Wong’s known movements and activities since her involvement with Neo Umbrella weren’t light reading. The woman had been busy, and the B.S.A.A analysts thorough.

Piers watched Chris slap the folder onto the roof of their vehicle, a standardised black SUV. The Tinted windows edition, apparently. Tinted everything, really. Whoever issued vehicles in the North American Branch either wished he’d be working for the CIA or some other spook outfit, or watched too many spy movies. The cliché almost hurt. At least the European Branch bothered with variety, Piers thought as he dumped his backpack into the trunk.

“Where we going, Redfield?” The Shielding girl stood by the side of the vehicle, a daypack slung over her shoulders and twitchy feet turning her in circles.

A gust of wind snatched up the scarf she didn’t go anywhere without, which she’d looped around the belt of her jeans after getting off the plane. Restless eyes ran up and down the crowded parking lane. They tracked people moving across the road, dragging luggages, kids, spouses (or all three) after them.

Chris’ answer, a yank on the passenger back door and a curt “Get in,” seemed practiced. Rehearsed, almost. Like he’d done it a hundred times. She scoffed, but flung her pack through, before sliding in after it. Her feet vanished and the door slammed shut.

Piers let the trunk fall closed.

 _Sadja_ bothered him.

 _They_ bothered him.

The silence between them, and how nonchalantly they _disregarded_ each other most of the time, set his teeth on edge. She just…

 _Christ’s-sake…_ Piers got behind the wheel. _Stop being such a pussy. They cleared her. The Captain thinks she’s useful, and he trusts her. What more do you need?_

But Piers remembered the twitch of her finger against the trigger back in Edonia. Decisive. No hesitation. Sadja had been ready to kill him, right then and there in a frozen over back alley. You didn’t just forgive crap like that, and you certainly didn’t forget it. He took a deep breath, sorted the anger and irritation away, and got the engine running. _Focus._

A quick glance at his wristwatch told him that they’d have plenty of time to kill before their arrival at the branch HQ, but he didn’t quite know what to do with it. Head to the Taphouse? That’d be the traditional thing to do, at least if it had just been him and Chris. Almost every flight into Baltimore left them stranded there for a while, especially if the assignment had been rough and nerves needed realigning. And Piers thought he could use some realignment now that he was back on home soil. It’d be _normal_. Something hard to come by these days.

“Command isn’t expecting us for another hour and a half, Captain.”

“Right,” Chris said. Ada Wong’s recent documented life landed on the dash, along with a set of sunglasses. “Got any suggestions?”

“This is your homecoming, not mine. But I’m sure they wouldn’t mind us showing early.”

“No. I guess they wouldn’t.”

 _You would though._ Piers focused on getting the SUV on the interstate.

The closer to _home_ they got, the tighter Chris’ jaw clenched. It’d pass, of course. Everything else had. The amnesia, the drinking (something Sadja had pointed out frequently), and the long stretches of holding his head while he stared at a wall. He just needed a little more time to adjust.

Chris threw a look at the rearview mirror. “Hungry?”

“Mh,” their passenger breathed from the backseat.

“What was that?“

“Yessir, I am peckish.”

 _Peckish._ Who the fuck says peckish? The Brits did. Except she wasn’t one, and that bothered him too. Piers followed the Captain’s example and tilted his head up to catch a look of her in the mirror. She stared right back at him. A brief smirk tugged on the left corner of her lips.

His eyes cut back to the road. “Taphouse it is.”

Sadja didn’t _look_ threatening, Piers admitted. Her demeanour, if you didn’t pay close attention, was that of a quiet, indiscernible tag-along that trailed Captain Redfield. She didn’t stand out, or draw attention, but melted into his shadow from where she could observe the world safely. Chris ignored her there. He let her be, lurking about with her eyes on the swivel. Until she opened her mouth, or caught sight of something that threw her off that orbit she’d picked. Then she mattered. Even if just long enough for a faint gesture or a curt word, lest she’d wander off or something equally unfortunate. Which, Piers figured, was a good thing, considering she hadn’t even known what a damned _passport_ was when they’d gotten to the airport. He very much didn’t want to think of what would have happened if she’d gotten separated from them.

 _”What do I need that thing for then?”_ Sadja had asked Chris when he’d pushed her open papers across at check-in.

 _”ID,”_ he’d said and then added: _”Identification…”_

She’d narrowed her eyes at it and pulled her face into a grimace. _”Elaya’s bloody knickers… I look_ ghastly _in that thing, Redfield.”_

_”You look fine.”_

Her eyes had snapped to Chris. _”I do?”_ Mischief had flared briefly, and backed the Captain into a proverbial corner as he’d glared back at her.

“Why ’s it that the concrete rivers here are even wider?” Sadja’s question snapped his attention back into the present.  _Concrete-what?_

“More cars,” Chris told her.

“Bigger ones too, mh?”

“Yeah.”

Piers noticed him eyeing the folder where he’d left it on the dash, and it seemed he wasn’t the only one.

“Oh, for crying out loud, Redfield…” Behind him, Sadja unclipped her seatbelt and climbed to the front between the seats. Just as Chris reached for the intel file. The Captain lifted an arm, caught her against his elbow. She tried scale his arm, but he grabbed her by the neck instead and pushed her nose-first into the console.

“Neevanz,” Sadja wheezed.

Piers exhaled. “Seriously? It’s Nivans.”

“I’ll call you whatever you like, just take that bloody thing away from him, will you? He’ll get a thirst again if you don’t, and then he’ll want to drink himself silly.”

“Oh, shut up,” Chris muttered.

Piers took his eyes off the road long enough to take stock of the situation unfolding next to him. A stoney faced Captain Redfield held Sadja down, her cheek pressed into the faux leather cover. She dug her fingers into his forearm and pushed against the backrest with her other hand. Whenever it looked like she was about to break free, the grip on her neck tightened.

After more than twenty days of having stood at the sidelines of their friendship, Piers had watched this _thing_ they had swing about like a confused pendulum. It dragged itself through kindness for a while, before knocking that over and replacing it with a grudge. Soon after it came back around to affection, lingered there long enough to make him feel uncomfortable, before crushing that against a wall of hostility.

It was bipolar. The only reasonable course of action was to institutionalise it. Indefinitely.

Piers cleared his throat. “Captain. The file. Please.”

Their private conflict they’d wrapped themselves up in stalled. Chris looked at him. His brow pinched like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard, and Sadja chuckled. Her amusement was short-lived, swatted from her skull with the folder cracking down on her head.

“Arse,” she muttered.

The grip on her slackened and she slipped free.

“I’m beginning to think you should have left me across your Atlantic, Redfield.” Sadja rubbed at her neck and ran her hands through her short cropped hair.

“Left you there to do what?” Chris waved the intel file at her. She flinched.

“Find me some other gullible fool.” A quick hand darted forward and snatched the papers from him. “Maybe one that’ll teach me how to ride those two wheeled beasties, since you wouldn’t.”

“ _Motorcycles,”_ Chris said. “You’d have killed yourself.”

“That prospect being half the fun of the exercise, Redfield.”

He turned in his seat. “Don’t make me get back there.”

“Why not? It’s terribly boring back here.”

Piers whistled through his teeth and decided to mind his own business. Said business being driving, and the growing hope for an ice cold beer waiting for him at the Taphouse. A perfectly normal beer, with perfectly normal consequences.


	29. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sadja fails at math and finds out Jill Valentine has quite the firm handshake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boi-- Sadja's first day stateside, with a quick peek into her past to kick things off.

**HOME**

* * *

 

 **》》** **S** adja stared across the _Painted City_ , her perch a narrow bell tower missing said bell. Safety seemed to have been of no concern to the architects of the sorry thing, or maybe they’d just not gotten around to it yet. Much like they’d not bothered with the thing that’d go  _GONG_. No railing ringed the platform, which allowed her to sit as close to the edge as she dared.  Which was pretty damn close, her feet dangling off, and torso leaning forward. A gust of warm evening air snagged her loose trousers and slipped under her shirt. From the bottom of the tower came the murmurs and constant drone of life churning through packed streets and alleys. Her heels knocked against the side of the structure, following a particular rhythm of a street performer and his loudly rattling drums. She yawned.

_This is nice._

“Legend goes,” the Keeper said, cutting her solitude to ribbons. “That one of Elaya’s sons built the city from inky black rock. Most think it must have been _Ro_ , the Eldest.”

She looked over her shoulder.

_Oh sod off you cunt…_

Sinvik walked forward, eyes focused on the expanse of the city. If she got lucky, Sadja thought, maybe the Keeper would just walk right off? Naturally, that would have been too much to ask. Before she could voice her protest, Sinvik lowered herself to join her, making herself right at home, her back resting against one of the pillars keepings up the bell tower’s empty dome.

“He chose rock so dark, it drank the very light from the sun,” Sinvik continued. One of her legs went over the edge of the tower, and a knee came up to her chest. She leaned an arm over it, looking so bloody relaxed it made Sadja wonder if she could just nudge her off the tower and be done with this mess.

This whole feeling grateful for having saved her life. For hating her for ruining it. For hating her for making her kill her husband.

Maybe Sinvik would flail a little while she went over. Flap her arms. Try to fly. She couldn’t fly, could she? Of course she couldn’t. She’d go plunging straight down and land in some narrow alleyway still choked with the shifting bodies of people wandering the city at dusk. They’d scream. They’d scatter. Sadja’d laugh.

What a fitting end it’d be— a finale to a pathetic little dance of Sinvik saving her, and then condemning her, right before saving her again, because the Keeper’s mind was fickle, but her generosity stubborn.

Oblivious to Sadja plotting her murder, Sinvik kept talking: “Soon the valley knew only twilight, no matter the time of day. The people’s hearts turned with it, banished joy and banished love. Generations were born to everlasting darkness, toiled their lives away in it, and died in it, not ever having known true light.”

Sadja sniffed. “Did he build some great bloody wall too, or why’s it they didn’t just leave?”

Sinvik arched a brow at her. Her amber stare flicked from her to the valley below them, then out towards the gentle slopes of lush farm lands and the great _Aipanes_ lakes spreading far as the eye could see.

“No wall, Love. Legends don’t need walls.”

“Fair ‘nuff. What then? How come it now looks like a kid melted its crayons all over it?”

It did too, Sadja thought. There, in the sun baked valley, every structure had fallen victim to swathes of colour. Flat, squat hovels cobbled together from wooden planks. Round spires made of dark brick stacked high. Wide, peaked structures hewn from smooth, black rock. None of them had been spared the humiliation.

“Close enough. _Tre_ , in a moment of mischievous defiance towards his older brother, let the sky bleed colour for a whole turn. It drenched the city in every shade possible, many of which have been lost to the eons, fallen to legends themselves.”

Sinvik pinched a smoke from the pouch on her belt and lit it with a flick of a match. _Snap-hiss_ , the flame went before licking greedily at the wood and carefully rolled nipleave. The sound and scent brought a resemblance of peace with them, a rhythm of ordinary days that had gotten lost somewhere between Sadja murdering Ceat, and her washing up on the other end of the world with her soul in tatters.

“See how the East is mostly red and green?”

Sadja turned away from unpleasant thoughts and followed where Sinvik pointed with an extended arm.

“Mh.”

“A good hundred years ago they started dividing the city, and with it the people. Factions. Castes. Call it what you want. You’ve got the craftsmen, the farmers, fishermen and serfs in the East, right by the mouth of the valley. The clerks, the traders and entertainers own the West.”

She connected the reds, greens and shades of dirty brown dominating the West with the working classes, and the blues, yellows and that terrible, bright turquoise with the more _privileged_.

“What about the strip of white and purple and gold?” She asked. It ran straight down the middle of the vast city, a wide lane with a bulge ballooning out at its centre.

“That’d be the aristocracy, along with the Ward’s local garrison.”

Sadja bristled.

“Right.”

Here, across the _Buckle_ , so far away from home, it had been easy to think the world different. Though at the end of the day it didn’t matter how many mountains you scaled. Downhill waited the same pile of garbage as the one you’d climbed out of. Might be it smelled different.

Didn’t mean it wasn’t garbage. **《 《**

 **S** adja hadn’t scaled any _Buckle_ to get to what Redfield referred to as _North America_. She’d simply sat very still for a very long time, and let herself be flown across an _Atlantic_.

A great distance lay between here and the Europe they’d left behind, and Sadja had expected _something_ , though she didn’t quite know what. Herds of purple unicorns grazing on snow-white grass, now that would have been a start and certainly _different_.

More of the same greeted her instead. Maybe things were a bit bigger, come to think of it. The roads and metal beasties for one, and even the people. Sadja had thought them terribly rich, waddling about with their bellies big enough to be carried on the shoulders of little children, but Redfield had told her that no, no they weren’t.

The air held its own little nuances too. It seemed… weighty. _Is everything here just that?_ Less _spicy_. The food tasted different too, which she’d noted after Redfield had ordered her a chicken clad so thickly in breadcrumbs she’d had to excavate it first.

Sadja had liked the tavern though, that place called the _Taphouse_. They played music from boxes in the corners, loud guitars wrestling for attention over voices, each obsessed with its own tragedy. More so, it calmed the raging firestorm surrounding the Furnace, and brought back a measure of peace within the Verge. Which, aside of Redfield, remained the same sea of hushed, timid souls, none the wiser of the _Cad’his_ stalking amongst them.

Now, Sadja stood quietly, with her back against a wall, in yet another hallway.

At her feet lay Redfield’s duffle and her backpack. The more she thought about it, the more she felt like she’d been left standing here to watch over their stuff like some yappy guard dog. That tickled her.

_The nerve on him. We could decide to run off and cause mischief. What ‘d he do then?_

Scowl and huff was what, and the beast didn’t like the thought of being admonished by Redfield. It turned into a slab of unease so heavy, that Sadja half expected it to force her to sit amongst their belongings. Walking? The thought of that remained out of question entirely.

There was a mystery she hadn’t yet been able to answer. Just what had he done to it while Sadja’s soul had slumbered— hidden out of sight, tucked into the folds of her being, scared and broken and wounded after the Wasting had done it in —and what was she supposed to think? Do?

Sadja scoffed.

Stand and wait, was what, since that’s what he’d told her to do.

She watched people pass, all in various degrees of a hurry, rushing to and fro. They were moved by a hectic purpose, which stirred the fluttery hem more than usual.

Things were afoot here, or at least things were about to be, and everyone had it on their mind to prevent said _afooting_ at all cost. Most ignored her, though there were those who threw her suspicious glances. A few even stole curious looks at her before they turned to whisper to each other, their eyes flicking back to her as if she couldn’t see them.

The fledgling Keeper bloody hated that.

Sadja fidgeted, hands folded behind her back.

_Come on then, Redfield. Have you forgotten about me already?_

Him and Nivans had vanished through a door a little down the hall. It led to a room with a glass pane wall. Shapes moved about in there, but she couldn’t quite catch enough to quench the boredom.

Despite the beast’s protest ( _Oh,_ Tre _tear you to bits, get it together…)_ , Sadja wandered closer. She saw Nivans standing by the glass. He even _loitered_ all stiff like, with his back neat and straight, arms folded expertly, and legs slightly apart. In front of the table sat Redfield, and next to him stood a woman. Tall and slender, clothed in a dark uniform that hugged her figure closely, she made for quite the imposing figure. Long, almost white hair hung bound in a tail at her nape. The tip of it bobbed about as she leaned forward against the table, bearing down on a grey haired man sitting across of them. He’d folded his hands on the table and was listening intently to what Sadja thought must have been quite the string of fervent words.

_They judging you in there? Is that what this is all about? Will this be your pardon? Or the damnation you were fretting about?_

She frowned. He’d gotten this far. No reason to think he wouldn’t make it the rest of the way too.

And then he’d find the vengeance he wanted, and see himself welcomed back into the fold of his outfit with open arms. The alternative— the one where they cast him out, threw him to the wolves for what he’d done or hadn’t —that stitched Sadja’s throat shut, one thread at a time, each choking off the words of _This is my fault._

It wasn’t. Wasn’t her fault. Couldn’t be her fault, because she hadn’t known.

 _Stop kidding yourself,’_ she—the beast— _they_ chided her. If she’d trusted the Cataract. If she’d done as told. Gone in search for that tenacious guilt— then maybe none of this would have happened and he’d have never turned his back on all of _this._

A door opened to her right and two men walked right out without bothering to shut the thing behind them. She bristled, tried to swipe the thought of blame from her mind.

_Still not buying it?_

No. Of course not. Denial didn’t make a good Keeper. And now that death had gone and excused itself, what was there left for her but to crawl back to the life she’d abandoned looking for a second— third— ( _’Oh bother, I ought to have taken notes.’_ ) chance. Sighing, she glanced into the room the two men had exited.

A whiff of _records_ spilled out. Paper. Ink. The beast snarled, dug its claws into the ground.

 _Pussy,_ she chided and went to scratch that curious itch. And to bury the hurt with its skirts of guilt and regret.

The well lit room stood divided in two zones, each with its own metal counter. At the centre stood a glass pane, though considering all the words, numbers and sketches scrawled on it, along with slips of paper pinned along with the writing, Sadja could barely see through it.

She walked up to it and craned her neck at all the nonsense. This probably mattered to _someone_ , but to her it was just a lot of gibberish. Clicking her tongue, Sadja turned to the first counter and let her fingers tap curiously against the mess of papers sprawled out on it. Most of them were handwritten and they all seemed to gravitate towards a piece of tech sitting in the centre of it. A screen of sorts with a board full of numbers and letters in front of it. She’d forgotten what Redfield had called those things.

_Boring._

Disappointed in the lack of excitement to be found, Sadja started her retreat from the room, only to catch sight of the walls.

Horrors stared at her from them. Lifeless, frozen on thin sheets of paper.

The _Napads_ she recognised quickly, but they were by no means the worst monstrosities suspended up there.

“Elaya come pinch me…”

Gnarly things, vicious things, snarling things… Things tall as a building (like that hulking beast being lifted through the air back in Edonia), their mouths lined with ugly teeth and dripping saliva…

Sadja sniffed. She shuffled closer to the wall, her eyes drifting slowly from one picture to the other. They were marked with blobs of colour on the edges. Red. Orange. Yellow. Judging by the looks of them, yellow indicated bad news, while red announced one ought to better scamper off unless one liked having themselves demolished. There seemed to be an order to them too, one that spread from the left and all the way to the right. Lines were strung between the pictures, connecting them like some fallen ancestry tree well into rotting away. Her eyes flicked to the top. Years had been printed on white paper and stuck to the wall in irregular intervals.

This was _history_ , she realised. A grotesque timeline of discoveries that continued to expand further and further to the right.

Somewhat down to the left, in a column below the date of 1998, Sadja caught sight of a familiar name. It hid, tiny and insignificant, on a slip of white stuck to a faded photograph of a building hunkering amongst trees. **Arklay Laboratory incident** loomed in fat letters above it.

_Barry Burton, Jill Valentine, Chris Redfield, Rebecca Chambers_

_1998?_

Sadja’s eyes hiked a little higher, followed the trail of things that spread away from the house shrouded in trees. Detailed drawings were mixed into the photographs, depicting men and women who, judging by how their meat was falling off, shouldn’t rightfully be standing any more. They’d even painted some gigantic fish thing with a triangle fin. A _shark_ , as Redfield had called those things. She’d not thought they came that big though. Then again, she’d not ever seen a woman with _tentacles_ sprouting from the back of her head either. Her face was badly covered by a sack of sorts, revealing flaps of skin detached from her cheeks. A crummy shift covered her body and she had her hands bound in a heavy block that forced her to bend forward awkwardly.

_1998… it’s what now? 2013?_

Amongst the bizarre were also a few small shots of skinny dogs. They’d shed most of their fur in favour of blisters and scabs, and their teeth were bared from the lack of lips.

 _That’s at least…_ Her mind sluggishly tried to snap the numbers together right. No one had ever claimed the Keeper to be good at mathematics.

Sadja cringed.

The beast whimpered.

“Was _Wait here_  not specific enough?”

She turned to face Redfield standing in the door.

_Oh boy._

_ < Fifteen > _

“What?” She blurted.

Redfield’s head cocked to the side. “What?”

 _ < Fifteen Years, > _ the beast repeated. _Helping._ Its lack of voice echoed against her soul as a hollow thrum, trapped below a layer of thickly caked dried earth. It cracked open, flaked off, and freed thoughts whispered while one slept, but never allowed themselves to be remembered.

Sadja shivered. Her teeth clicked shut. She felt her jaw lock up and her fingers curl into fists.

If only she could thrash that bastard without beating herself silly at the same time, there’d be fists flying already. The beast rumbled, stalked from its cage, and settled down. _Complacent._

But the beast wasn’t that. Hadn’t ever been. Wasn’t ever meant to be. At no point was it allowed to sit in tune with her, to align itself with what it had once been one with. Her. They weren’t any more and they’d never be again, because what the beast embodied was the hurt she’d shed and she didn’t need it back. Didn’t want it back.

It growled.

She tried to push it from her mind. Back into its cage. _Back._ And it complied, if reluctantly, leaving her to herself and allowing her to refocus on Redfield.

The argument held in the confines of her head had lasted no longer than a heartbeat, yet it took her another two to remember what he’d said. Something along the lines of her not listening.

_Now-Now, that is unlikely._

“I grew bored.”

“Of course you did.” He turned his eyes up to the wall she’d been studying before he, and her beast, had so rudely interrupted her. A small frown pulled on his lips.

“So, this is why you don’t like dogs?”

Redfield allowed himself a faint smile.

“That’s right.” He nodded towards the door, and tore himself away from 15 years of his life spread out in front of him. “Let’s go.”

“Mh. Let’s.”

She followed him back into the hallway. They gathered up their belongings, he threw one glance back at the office, and then she fell in step with him as he started leading her through what must have been the first familiar territory for a very long time. He walked these halls like a man who could have done so with his eyes bound shut.

People stared at him. Greeted him. The uniformed man at the elevator even stood a little straighter as they stepped inside. _Blip-Beep_ the thing went when Redfield pushed a card against a lock. The door shuddered shut and down they went.

“How’d it go? In there, with your Chief.”

“Much better than expected.” Another smile. A dash of hope.

“Then where are we going? I thought they’d want to talk to me too.”

He shook his head. “They do, but one thing at a time. I managed to buy us another two days. Told them you’re…” The elevator stopped and he threw her a quick, almost apologetic glance. “… still adjusting.”

“Is that so, Redfield?”

They stepped out.

“Here I thought you were the one who’d forgotten himself and I was the picture of health looking after you.”

He scoffed. “It’s not that simple. We have to get your story straight. You can’t just tell them—“

“— the truth?”

Her interruption drew his brow together and he shrugged. A spiteful _ < He’ s right > _ bounced through her skull and she lobbed profanities at it.

_Outnumbered. Is that how this will be?_

Of course she couldn’t tell them the truth.

It had been fun to defy the _Cataract’s_ rules so bluntly with no regard for consequences. Now? Now things were different. Back then she’d still thought herself with a one way ticket clutched in her hand, an invitation by Lady Death herself, waiting to be stamped and processed.

She clicked her tongue and inclined her head. “These are your people. I’ll do as you wish.”

Surprise peppered her gates and Redfield looked at her as if she’d just stripped naked, donned a pink hat, and cartwheeled down the hallway.

“Thank you.” He sounded skeptical, but grateful nonetheless.

They walked in silence for a few more heartbeats until they passed another door with a uniformed man standing idly by it. He too snapped his legs together and stiffened his spine upon seeing Redfield, and the men exchanged brief nods before she was herded out into a wide open underground hall that smelled of thick oil and wet steel.

Rows of metal beasties stood waiting beneath the low ceiling, though none of them red. Her heart sank. She missed that stupid _car_.

“Chris,” a woman called from the left and both of them turned towards her. Sadja recognised her from the room with the glass wall. Dark, midnight blue uniform, fair hair…

_Sheesh, she’s got goods._

The uniform didn’t have to work awfully hard to compliment her features, from the strong, long legs, to the glimpse of pallid skin falling away below her chin, spinning wild tales of ample bounties hidden out of sight.

 _Very_ pallid skin, Sadja noted. Like she’d not seen the sun for years. Even her eyes were a shade too light. They flicked to Sadja, who stood with her gates cracked just wide enough to take a whiff, and found herself faced with something peculiar. She stood out within the bland landscape of souls. Subtly so— but not for the lack of strength, but for a restraint that kept her well contained. Guarded. For once, Sadja’s gentle probing met delicate resistance, a curious stream of sunlight dancing across torn metal, its edges sharp and ready to cut her to ribbons should she press too hard.

Peculiar.

The woman raised a hand and flicked a set of keys at Redfield, who snatched it from the air.

“Thanks.” He inspected them briefly, glanced at Sadja standing very still next to him, and nodded towards the tall woman.

“Jill Valentine,” the Furnace introduced her.

Same _Jill_ as the one on that wall? The 1998 one? That’d make them old friends. Old _somethings_ , anyway.

“Pleasure.” Sadja shuffled forward and shook her hand, since that was what polite people did. _Least we can do. Be at our best behaviour._

“And you’re Sadja Shielding,” Miss Valentine said, a friendly, pale smile on her lips. “The stray that Chris decided to bring home.”

 _Stray, eh?_ Sadja arched a brow at Miss Valentine. She had one bloody firm handshake, that one. Firm _everything_ , really. Body, mind and soul, if Sadja was to guess. A bit _askew_ , a bit out of order, like she’d been welded together hastily more than once. The lines still showed. But they held, and it all amounted up to a figure that made Sadja feel momentarily small. Her being at least a hand taller might have been a contributing factor. She withdrew her hand.

“Does he make a habit of collecting those?” Sadja looked between them.

Redfield sighed and Miss Valentine grinned.

* * *

 **T** he keys belonged to a monstrous dark grey metal beastie, and Sadja didn’t like it much. It rumbled, where it really should have been purring. It cruised, when it should have nimbly woven through traffic, and it smelled too _fresh_. The windows were all wrong too. They’d been tinted just enough to turn the world outside a sickly shade of green, though it should have been all pretty oranges and dusky blues considering the time of the hour.

Sadja sighed and thumped her head against the seat. She allowed herself a moment to want for nothing more than to be back in Europe. Back in the red beastie, with a Furnace next to her who lacked direction as much as she lacked a future.

With the sun setting, they’d be out to find a hotel now. Or a parking space somewhere by the edge of a road where they’d sit staring across the country side with a bottle of beer moving between them.

_Never thought I’d miss dying._

She craned her neck towards Redfield.

Black shades sat on the bridge of his nose. They paired well with the thin, straight line of his lips, and the dark shadow on his cheeks. Riding his right shoulder was another _BeeEssAyAy_ badge, stitched to the fabric of a white shirt. Sadja thought he looked like a grim sort of professional, leaking highly volatile purpose, and not caring much for sitting on the hoods of cars and drinking the evenings away.

Not any more.

“Old Partner, mh?” That’s what he’d called Miss Valentine, but Sadja thought it might be more. Or might have been, at one point or the other.

He nodded. “We’ve worked together for sixteen years. On and off.”

“That’s a whole lot of years,” she said absent-mindedly while she remembered their farewell. Miss Valentine had pulled him into a hug, one that lingered long enough to tell a tale of intimacy. His shoulders had sagged. His breathing stopped. You’d think he’d have been relieved by the gesture. Comforted, even, wrapped in the warmth of someone who cared. Though then he’d levelled a blank, crestfallen stare at the wall behind Miss Valentine, and worse, he’d frowned. So what _did_ he feel? A mystery, that. One that begged to be solved.

“Come on Redfield, share a little. You’re close, no?”

He threw her a sideways glance.

“Scoping out the competition?”

Sadja sniffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He chose to respond to that with a few heartbeats of silence. His hands idly moved up and down the steering wheel. His fingers opened. Closed. He snatched the shades from his eyes and tossed them onto the dash.

_Oh you lovely Oaf. You’re flustered, aren’t you?_

“Yeah,” he finally said. “We were. But _this_ …“ He tapped on the badge on his shoulder, and let out a sigh so heavy with futility Sadja almost wanted him to stop talking. Nothing good ever followed a sigh like that. “…all of it. It gets in the way, makes things that should have been dead simple complicated. Sometimes— sometimes I thought we had it. Broke the pattern, won the last battle. But it never lasts.”

Redfield let their monstrous beastie slow and hang right. They swung up a driveway into a wide parking lot. More squat buildings, their facades covered in colourful billboards, formed a half circle around the lot. The lot was packed with people.

“One way or the other,” he continued while the beastie started sniffing for a parking space. “The world goes to shit again the next day. Or more to the point, it gets _worse_. It needs the B.S.A.A, and the B.S.A.A apparently needs her. Needs me.”

“And you need _them_.”

He allowed the beastie to roll up between two fellow metal monstrosities. The engine rumbled. His eyes drifted idly from the storefronts to her and his brow furrowed.

“I— yeah. It’s where I belong. What else would I do? Sit behind a desk? Take up gardening? Buy a boat? With what money?”

Why did it feel like he was levelling those questions right at her, expecting her to tell him that _Yes, that’s what you’d do_? Was it confirmation he wanted? She watched him clench his jaw.

“And you’ve seen what’s going on out there. I couldn’t just turn my back on that.”

“Mh,” Sadja hummed. “I get it. Redfield the big bloody hero who ’s got to shield the world from things that go bump day in and day out. That’s remarkably valiant. Though really now, what ‘d be stopping you from the occasional intimate fooling about with that fine dame?”

“That…” His eyebrows decided to go from pinched and harassed to widely arched. “What?” The engine of the beastie rolled over one more time, then died.

“You know, roasting the broomstick. Boffing. Knocking boots. A bit of fornication after the heroics.”

“Jesus Christ, Sadj—“

“Have a romp. Shag.”

“ _Sadja._ ” He stared at her from unnecessarily far away, since that bloody car was just too wide.

“What?”

“You’re terrible.”

A faint smile pulled on his lips. Sadja met it with a quick grin.

“I know, and you adore me for it.”


	30. Hiraeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's empty. It's dusty. It's _home_ , and Sadja's heart breaks as she steps into it and sees a man drown within his own four walls.

**HIRAETH**

* * *

 

 **A** bout an hour later, with the sun now barely hanging onto the edge of the world, Redfield pulled the monstrous beastie into a quiet street. Rows of identical trees formed a sad honour guard, looking much like starving soldiers with patchy green helmets.

The beastie slowed to a crawl a little ways in, swung left, and inched up a driveway.

“What’s that then?” Sadja asked.

In front of them, illuminated by the beastie’s headlights, stood a mortar and brick building. One of many, she noted. They stood shoulder to shoulder, with their dark roofs forming pointy peaks like a mountain range that had only been given permission to grow _just that_ high. _That high_ being exactly two floors. Then they’d been handed one door each, along with a set of three windows, and told exactly where to put them.

“Home.”

She glanced at Redfield. His right hand hovered by the ignition key, his left remained wrapped loosely around the steering wheel.

“Hrrrrm. Don’t you think this is all moving incredibly fast?”

“What?”

“Will you be introducing me to your parents next?”

He pulled the key and jabbed a finger into the general direction of _out_. A grunt was all she got for a retort, and how he managed to make it sound endearing was beyond her. Sadja smirked. She climbed from the beastie, which was a little like hopping off a pony, and dragged her backpack along with her.

Somewhere off to the left a dog barked. Another answered from the right. Sadja turned herself in a circle, taking in the serenity of the street. Gentle light poured from some of the windows on the rows of houses. She could even see shapes moving about through some of them. Having dinner, maybe? Huddling together in front of a _TeeVee_ box? A door opened across the street, and a woman poked her head out. She stared across at her and Redfield, then hollered _Eddie!_ at the top of her lungs. Moments later a chubby boy, no older than seven, came bolting from the metal beastie stable connect to the house ( _Garage. It’s called a garage…_ ) and joined his mother. She kept looking at them a little while longer, obviously curious, before the door finally fell shut.

 _Yeah. Definitely dinner._ Sadja’s stomach growled at the insult of not having been invited along. Then it growled some more at Redfield when he called “Coming?” and got her feet moving up the driveway.

The door stood open and Sadja picked up the last bag he’d left standing next to it. They’d stopped by the biggest indoor market Sadja had ever seen in her life an hour ago, and Redfield had marched through it like a man on a mission, gathering up things so fast she’d barely been able to keep up with him. It had all fit into three bags though, two of which he’d already lugged inside. Most of it, Sadja hoped, was food. Because if it wasn’t, there’d be trouble.

“I’m starving, Redfield,” she warned him and stepped into the house.

She shuffled through the entrance hall, and peered past him as he stood by an open archway leading further into the house. He flicked a light switch. Nothing.

“Oh come on.” He tried again, this time with an appropriate scowl aimed right at the stubborn light fixed to the ceiling above them. Nothing. Again. “Shit.”

Sadja sidled up next to him and shot a glance into a large, dark room.

“Here,” he said and shoved one of the bags into her arms. “Take these to the kitchen. Just there, to the left.”

She arched a brow at him.

“What? You want me to break out the candles?”

“Fine.” Sadja started hauling everything through the dark, her eyes questing for obstacles and her feet dragging along the floor. She found the kitchen where he’d said she would and piled bags, duffle and backpack onto a free standing counter. Then she wandered over towards the window, where a thick, dark green curtain had been drawn to block out the faint evening light. She dragged them open, stepped back, and let her curiosity off its leash.

Silence. A long, drawn out hush. She sniffed at the air. Stale. Still. Dry. This place hadn’t seen life for a long while. Much longer than the time Redfield had spent forgetting himself.

Sadja stepped around the counter and wandered. An empty table, big enough to seat at least four, took up the rest of the room. The hardwood floor lay bare. Mostly. A single carpet ran along the bottom of the table, and it was just as bland as everything else. White. Clean. The two cupboards pushed against the far left wall stood mostly empty, aside of a few rows of glasses in different shapes and sizes occupying three shelves.

She wandered on, leaving the kitchen behind. To the right of the hall, a staircase led up to the second floor, and below it stood a commons room. A wide _TeeVee_ claimed one wall. Along with it came a drab, grey couch and a low glass table, all of which stood on a thin, light brown carpet.

A lone shelf stood at the opposite wall. It held books. Not a great deal of them, but enough to comfortably fill most of it. Sadja couldn’t see much in the poor light the room got from the still open front door, but she told herself to come back later and find out just what Redfield did for reading. Save for the books, Sadja couldn’t find anything else of note in the commons room. She’d expected pictures. Collections of sorts maybe. Or paintings, like the ones decorating all the hotel rooms she’d frequented. She frowned.

Her heart did the thing where it decided to fold in on itself, rather than beat, and ache with each twitch.

_Home?_

She looked back into the hall. Redfield stood elbow deep in a wall mounted closet, focused on the task of getting the place lit. He was oblivious to her roaming about.

She left him to his quest and padded up the stairs. They creaked softly, almost hesitatingly. Like they’d forgotten what it felt like to be stepped on. So Sadja walked carefully, not wanting to get them worked up, and reached the top just in time for Redfield to explain (with his gruff enthusiasm) that “Fucking finally”-the lights were back. She tested his claim by fiddling with the first thing on the wall that looked remotely flip-like.

The hallway lit up. _POP_ a bulb went somewhere and a tentative flicker of the recently reawakened lights threatened to ruin Redfield’s victory. They held though, and Sadja was free to continue exploring what he’d called _Home_.

_Oh you sad creature…_

A storage room worth two boxes, a spotless bathroom. Empty walls. Empty _everything_.

_This isn’t home, is it?_

She reached the end of the hall, where the last door stood slightly ajar. The bedroom, apparently, and by far the busiest room if she chose to be generous. It had a double bed taking up most of the floor, with carpets spaced out in an uneven pattern around it, and a window covered by more thick curtains at its head. A closet stood from one corner to the other on one wall. Empty coat hangers hung from one of its door handles. Sadja got the lights on, stepped inside, and walked right over to sit on the perfect, crinkle free bedcovers. They’d been tucked between mattress and frame, keeping them stretched taut while they waited for someone to come have a snooze.

Her hands idly smoothened the fabric while she searched for something, _anything_ that’d tell her that this was indeed where a man did his living. Where he slept. Where he dreamt. Where he did things men so did. Where he got up the next morning. Where he returned to come another nightfall.

She clicked her tongue.

This was a _stop_ , if anything. A layover sort of thing, where he waited for another call to come in and tell him he’d have to strap his boots on again.

_Why leave a mess, mh? Best not settle, since you never know how long you’ll be gone._

Wedged between a side table and the bed, stood a bat of sorts, painted a slick silver. The type she’d seen used to swat at balls on the _TeeVee_ box.

_Or if you’ll ever come back at all._

Tentative heat nuzzled up against her gates, and a knock at the door drew her eyes away from the empty bed-side table. He didn’t even have an alarm clock. Redfield stood in the doorway, the duffle grasped tight in his right hand.

“Getting comfortable?”

“Mh.”

He arched a brow at her, but didn’t wait for her _Yessir_ before stepping into the room and going straight for the closet.

“You can sleep here,” he told her and popped open one of the doors. “I’ll crash downstairs, at least until we find you a place to stay.”

“If only I still had my hard earned money,” Sadja taunted him. “We’d both have beds and you’d have me out of your hair.”

“Stolen,” he corrected her.

“Thieving takes effort.”

He glared over his shoulder and Sadja caught a glimpse at the insides of the closet.  _Well, will you look at that._ She hopped off the bed.

Redfield kept his eyes glued to her as she padded over to join him. He moved aside. His hand grasped the edge of the door and he seemed torn between snapping it shut again or letting her take a good look.

Here, Sadja thought, in this closet, lay everything the man truly owned.

A fairly monotone selection of shirts, neatly arranged, hung at the back. Perfectly wrinkle free and colour coded with white on the left and shades of green on the right. More clothes, trousers and whatnot, lay in stacks. Also colour coded. Equally neat.

Sadja cared little about his wardrobe. What got her attention, and had her crowd against Redfield, were the bits of genuine value. _Life._

Latched shut metal boxes collected in the bottom shelves. Trinkets, most of them strange to her still, lay scattered around them. They seemed varied enough to make her think they’d been collected from all over the world. Souvenirs of his travels, maybe?

She took a moment standing with her hands folded behind her back, her weight shifting back and forth on the balls of her feet, and tilted her head towards the inside of the closet door. Pictures. So many of them. Some faded with age, others obviously smoothened out with great care after they’d been folded or crumpled. Unlike the wall back at the offices, these were not labeled, and neither did they depict any terrors. They showed people, all alive and well.

At least at the time when their likenesses were recorded on slips of papers.

“Who are they?” she tapped her fingers against a particular weathered photograph. A group of uniformed men and women stood facing her way, and Sadja thought she recognised Miss Valentine and a much younger Redfield who hadn’t yet grown out his shoulders.

“The first members of the B.S.A.A.”

“And her?” Her finger darted to the edge of the door, where Redfield seemed to be enjoying life, a big smile on his face and a much shorter, red haired woman hanging from his arm.

“Claire.”

“Your sister.”

“Yeah.”

“She’s a lot prettier than you.”

He scoffed. “Thanks.”

“And this?” Sadja snatched the second half of the closet door and propped it open.

A reddish-brown leather jacket, suspended from a knob shaped like an airplane, presented her with an interesting picture. She blinked.

The wide back served as a canvas to a woman with long, golden locks, and a dark red set of brightly smiling lips. She wore a light blue dress, a very tight one, which exposed an enormous bosom and stopped just short of a shapely backside. Her long legs, one extended straight, the other bent at the knee, ended in red, heeled shoes.

She had wings. Beautiful feathered wings of matching blue to her dress.

In her hands, the winged woman held on to a black, cylindrical object. Sadja had learned what those were from watching movies with Redfield. Air dropped bombs, he’d called them. Deadly things, and that pretty lass was proudly holding one of them, presenting it like some priced object. Four more rows of them were painted in white around her legs.

And above all of that, in a flowing script, someone had written _Made in Heaven_.

Sadja craned her neck towards Redfield, who’d started looking awfully apologetic. She smirked.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I was young.”

“You were young? Here I thought you’d been born just like this, a burly, gruff baby.”

He reached around her, crowding her into the closet, and grabbed the second door. The scent of rainy days came with him, the tropical sort this time around, thick heat pressing in around her. He glared at her. Sadja ducked below his arm. She’d much rather prefer not to get locked into the closet, or give the prowler that came stalking at her time to change the tune.

* * *

 **T** he pillow was too high.

Sadja lifted her head and pounded a fist into the damned thing. No, still too high.

She groaned, rolled onto her back, and stared at the ceiling. A horrible weight settled on her, squeezed her chest and snared her thoughts. Wild ideas kicked around in her skull, restless murmurs that reminded her of her shortcomings the last few months.  Her failings before that. Her unnecessary, childish rebellion against the _Cataract_.  They told her, plainly, that she occupied a man’s bed and the poor sod had banished himself to a scratchy looking couch. That this fledgling Keeper was a thankless _quak_.  

It was way too hot in here. Sadja kicked aside the covers, swung her legs off the bed, and sat facing a bleak, white wall. There she paused, contemplating her shaky breaths, and the urge to scream at the top of her lungs. Though what she’d holler about, now that she was fuzzy about.  

_ < Hrrgrrmmh…> _

“Shush,” she muttered. “Go away again.”

It never would of course. Not really. It’d come knocking again, or rattle on its cage, snapping its jaws and swishing its tail— _that_ she’d gotten used to. But now? That hint of calm? That was new. And it irritated her.

“You’re terrible company.”

The beast snorted and slunk off. Arguing took effort, and even battered fractures of yourself liked to be lazy once in awhile.

She stood, fetched the long nightshirt from the end of the bed, and pulled it over her head. It tickled her knees. Maybe a walk about the street or a pillaging of the fridge would set her nerves. Tossing and turning in bed, now that was not helping. She slipped out the door and followed the dark hallway.

Faint noise crept up the stairs, and Sadja crept down along with it, one careful step at a time. Light flickered along the walls. Down at the bottom, where she’d expected to find Redfield passed out (and probably half hanging off the narrow couch), she found a decent enough explanation to her own discord.

Some of it, at least.

The Furnace couldn’t sleep either.

A familiar picture, that. He sat hunched forward on the couch, a bottle of beer passing between his hands. Something else, a metal chain of sorts, dangled from his fingers. It chimed gently against the glass. The _TeeVee_ flickered and whispered on the wall, but his bleary stare never left the mouth of the bottle.

Sadja stalked through the dark.

“What’s the occasion?”

His shoulders twitched at the sound of her voice, startled. She dropped herself into the couch next to him, snatched for the bottle, and earned herself a pitiful grunt. He lifted the beer out of reach, liquid sloshing about inside. Still half full. She looked around for empty ones, but found none. A good sign.

For a long while, Sadja sat with her gates half open, and let his sorrow and guilt come and go as it pleased. She couldn’t do much about it, couldn’t lead it away and send it off on a hike through the night. But Sinvik had always said that sorrow shared, that was sorrow halved. Literally. Advise from one Cad’his to the other.

So she nudged her gates open a little further still, let him drag the dirt through, and leave some for her. She could handle it. She’d dealt with worse.

On the _TeeVee_ (she still thought it ought to be _in_ ), two men rode horses over craggy land. They wore wide brimmed hats and packed long nosed guns at their hips. She missed horses.

 _What more do we miss?_ Sinvik. Of course. Sadja frowned. What else?

“I should be relieved.” Redfield spoke up with his voice thickly layered in unwanted emotion. He knocked her thoughts aside.

“Mh.”

“Happy, right? I should be _happy_.” He took a sip from his bottle. _CLINK_ the chain went. Her eyes flicked to it, noticed the metal tag dangling off it.

“Mh.”

“I’m _home_.”

She looked around. “Yeah…”

“This is where I make things right.” Redfield stared at the beer in his hands. No, the chain and its tag. His brow furrowed. “My chance to get my life back.”

The men on the _TeeVee_ had reached a dingy looking bar, and someone started a scuffle. Tables were turned, chairs went flying, and liquor bottles entered intimate relationships with skulls.

She missed tussles.

“Why,” he grunted. “Why do I feel like shit?”

Sadja looked at the smouldering Furnace.

“You left your post.”

 _ < So did you. > _ The interjection stung, as truth so very often did.

Redfield narrowed his eyes at the beer. His head allowed itself the faintest of nods.

“I _deserted_. I— I let everyone down.”

“How is that your fault?” She shifted her weight and turned to face him. “When I left… no, when I _ran_ , I did so by choice. I abandoned my people knowing very well what I was doing. You? You forgot yourself. Quite literally, if I might add.”

He looked at her.

“That’s an explanation. Not an excuse. Doesn’t change what I did. Or that it was wrong.”

That stung too. _What about a_ Hey, don’t be hard on yourself _?_

“You might have caused a bit of a stir, Redfield, but you didn’t harm anyone.”

“I could have _helped_.”

“With what?”

“With…” He frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Things, mh? Some eventually? You’re a good man, but you’re not the only soldier in this—“ Sadja gestured gently. “—whatever _this_ is. A war, if you will. They did fine without you, and I’d wager that they’d manage alright without you for a little while longer.”

He straightened up, and his muddy blue eyes focused on her. They strayed, briefly, took stock of her sitting there as if he’d just now realised she’d joined him.

_Should have put on some pants._

She tugged on the ends of the shirt, pulled it far as it would go towards her knees.

“It’s incredibly vain of you to think the opposite.”

He stared.

“Oh.” Sadja tilted her head. “There’s more to it, isn’t there?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.” He took a sip from the bottle. “ _Simple man_ , remember?”

“Mh.”

He tried on a smile. It didn’t stick.

“You wanted to quit.”

Another long sip from his bottle bought him a moment to consider an answer.

“Right after Edonia,” he eventually murmured. “I expected that to be my last deployment. Had it all planned out, down to the last detail. How I’d hand in my resignation. Who’d replace me. How I’d… not go on like this. All I wanted to do, was go out and buy a new barbecue. For the backyard. Fix the place up. Or move.”

Sadja arched a brow at him.

“Barbe-what?”

He breathed out a quiet, short laugh. “Never mind.”

A hush settled. Lasted long enough for the scuffle on the _TeeVee_ to end with the heroes getting tossed through some windows.

“I wanted Piers to get the promotion,” Redfield continued and leaned back. He propped his arms up on the backrest of the couch. Sadja scooted to join him, her left shoulder maybe half a hand from the warmth of his side. Any closer and she feared he might bolt. She tilted her chin to look at the bottle of beer and the metal chain he carried around. “He’s a good kid,” he said. “Makes a great ATL.”

She plucked the beer bottle from his hand, looped a finger around the chain, and pulled it all away from him. He didn’t protest.

“Would make an even better Field Captain. Better than me.”

Sadja pushed her shoulders up against his arm while she inspected the curious trinket. It had his name stamped into it, along with the rank he held in his outfit, a date, and a blood type for some bizarre reason. She wiggled her shoulders a little closer to the warm arm behind her.

“And now…” he continued. “Things changed. Except I’m still _tired_. Can’t shake it either.”

She tried the beer, judged it unworthy, and squeezed the bottle between her legs. The trinket she wrapped around her wrist.

“I’m not going anywhere, Redfield. Even if you’d want me to.”

He threw her a puzzled glance.

_ < You can’t stay. > _

_Oh shut up._

“Once this is done I could rob us another thieves den. We could buy another red beastie, and you could drive me up and down the North America.”

_ < You can’t do that. > _

“We sprang death’s trap,” she tried to convince the lot of them, her beast included. “Who gets to say we don’t deserve a little break?”

Redfield seemed tickled by the thought. Genuine amusement lapped against her. A pipe dream, she knew, and so did he. But right now it felt right, and it went so incredibly well with the warm arm she’d nestled her back against, that Sadja didn’t feel like bowing to truth.

For a while the two men with their wide brimmed hats, one big and burly with a thick beard and curly black hair, the other lanky with bright blue eyes and a mop of yellow on-top his head, made for a good excuse to sit in silence.

Redfield eventually found his thirst again and took back his beer. He plucked it slowly from where she’d squeezed the bottle between her thighs, and then promptly forgot what he’d wanted to with it. Distracted, no doubt, by the hesitating prowler trying for his attention. She ignored it. Then he tapped at her right shoulder, a gentle touch in a broken rhythm. _Tap-Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap-Tap._ If it was a code, then she wasn’t privy to its message. It tickled though, each touch of a fingertip the feathery footprint of a gentle appeal.

Sadja glanced at Redfield, tilted her head at him.

 _What,_ she asked with a quirked brow.

He looked a little dazed. A touch too tired, maybe. Or a touch too much bothered by the prowler getting itself all worked up over matters unattended. Sadja held the muddy blue stare, and then her breath. Entirely unintentional of course.

By the time she had to remind herself that breathing wasn’t a habit you were meant to forget, Redfield’s fingers stopped tapping. They rested gently against her skin, not quite holding her in place, but hinting that he considered doing just that. His laden stare moved on a moment later and fell to the her hand, the one that still held on to his trinket.

It was important, that thing, and he expected it back. Even the prowler quieted down. He _needed_ it, though she wasn’t sure he also _wanted_ it. Maybe he told himself he did, or simply thought it so significant that he didn’t have a choice. There was a rickety pining there, barely holding itself on wobbly legs, staggering away from him into no discernible direction.

Sadja lifted the trinket within reach of his fingers.

He followed the movement attentively, and after a moment’s hesitation, unravelled the chain from her wrist. Careful, gentle fingers worked it free and then looped it around his. They closed into a loose fist.

“You ought to get some rest,” Sadja advised, with all the grace and ill-placed wisdom of a village idiot. Because there was a hush to him by her side, the same stillness she’d felt as he’d regarded her back on that day she’d woken from a pretense of death.

And she ruined it.

As she made to get up, to make room for a few hours of sleep, the slight shift of her weight was enough to cause a ruckus on her left. Tension flared. Embers stirred wildly, tossed about by a rake. A vaguely _Sadja-_ shaped one, and her terrible idea of moving.

How dare she think to leave him to his own devices? To abandon him within halls stranger than any wayside refuge had ever been, surrounded by drab, grey walls where colour had no meaning.

How dare she, and how could she— well, she couldn’t, and so she settled back down and felt the tension ebb away.

She glanced at him. The trinket held his attention, or so anyone looking at them might have thought. His eyes were glued to it. His brows furrowed. His shoulders slouched. Every flicker of the _TeeVee_ light bounced off him in ghostly tones, robbed him of colour, and made him look older than he ought to.

But while he stared at the bloody thing, he strayed off to the right, drifted through her gates, and left warm footprints where he stepped. An undercurrent came with him, like a gentle tide dragging her back ashore after she’d treaded water in the deep for too long.

She wondered if he knew. If he could tell how he unknotted the pressure sitting beneath her heart. The bit where the beast slumbered, the constant weight she’d grown used to, but by no means ever been able to fully ignore.

Maybe she should tell him. And maybe then she could ask him what he’d done. How he’d done it.

Sadja took a slow breath.

Maybe.

Later.

She startled him when she followed the tentative call. A quick exhale. Sharp, confused. His eyes flicked up to her, watched her swing a knee over him as she settled down on his lap. The motion bunched the nightshirt up, invited chilled air to nip at her. Warm hands ghosted against her skin a heartbeat later, as if he’d have liked to apologise for the clothes and their inconsiderate behaviour.

 _Sorry. Here—let me,_ the touch said, and he shifted under her. Tensed.

Sadja chuckled. A private, soft noise, and it brought his brows up, because he wasn’t in the know of what amused her, and when the _What_ started forming, she dove past the muddy blue stare and kissed him.

Because if she hadn’t, he might have asked her to stop.

She didn’t want to stop. Would have rather-  _this._ Soft lips. Cold. A little dry until she flicked her tongue over them. The scratch of the stubble he tended so well against her palm. His breath hitching. Pausing. Waiting for whatever she'd had in mind. For her nose nuzzling his. Her forehead bumping into him, a little clumsy, because it had been a while since she'd kissed anyone and it wasn't easy to get right.  

The Furnace didn’t taste like ash and embers, and he didn’t scorch her when she flung her gates wide open, ready to let them fall from their hinges if he’d want them to. She tasted unsaid words instead. Restraint. A summer’s warm evening, the air hard to breathe with the weight of rain.

A hand settled around her neck and turned her head back. Their kiss broke, made room for a few collected, deep breaths. Alert eyes caught her where she sat pressed against his lap, a hand curled in his shirt, the other looped into the crook of his elbow.

Alert and a little spooked. Uncertainty came knocking. It sat in the inquisitive look and in how he held her tilted back slightly, his fingers tightening around her nape at the slightest twitch of her muscles.

There was guilt in there too. Ugly. Withered. A memory, she thought. Of a drunken haze. Clumsy stitches. An unforgivable sin.

Sadja felt the prowler skirt her, but it kept a civil distance. He tried to too, made an effort to hold her at bay. Rude. She shifted her weight against him. Let her hip slide forward. Closer. Straight to the point. An open invitation.

He returned the small, uneven smile she offered him with a frown. No words though. Not yet, at any rate, and she felt a bit like laughing at him.

Here she sat. In this man’s home. On his bloody lap, no less, and she could tell he wasn’t against the idea, not with the pair of soft slacks he wore that did little to keep things secret.

And he was _thinking._

“What is it, Redfield? Have you gotten shy?”

He swallowed. Looked at her. Properly this time, his eyes dipping low, then hiking back up, a slow and careful measure of the lot of her. Another squeeze at her neck. A warm touch against her rump, his palm riding up. And up— and up— dragging the shirt with him as he followed her spine.

Not shy.

Attentive though, his fingers climbing her markings with curious care. The shirt came off. Took to the air, a blur vanishing off behind her, and for a little while he simply sat staring. _Thinking_ again. Every slow breath one step closer to a final decision. Every soft touch of his wandering hand dispelling doubt.

Redfield _Hrrmphed,_ an uncertain noise that had her cock her head and give her hips a testing, gentle roll.

Another harumph, this one more growl, less _Huh_ , and he locked her back in place.

And then she felt the touch of cold. It tickled against her neck, and she heard the click and chime of the chain as he lowered it around her head with widely spread fingers. It kissed her collarbone. Settled. The tags slipped between her breasts.

Sadja shivered, drew in a breath that should have come easier than the hitching mess it turned into. A weight came with the gesture of him passing her the trinket. The world bearing sort, and her heart ached thinking how he’d carried it dutifully for so many years. By himself, no less.

No wonder it dragged him under. Drowned him in his own home.

And distracted him, his fingers carefully tracing the chain down her front, until his hand wrapped around the tags. Though his eyes wandered a little. Rested on the scar diving down her middle. Took stock of the rest of her.

Still _thinking._

Once he’d studied her long enough, his eyes came back up to meet hers. Heavy, dark and still with a hint of conflict and asking _Are you sure?_ With the prowler nuzzling up against her. Close now. No longer civil.

Sadja hummed at him. Clicked her tongue. _What are you waiting for?_

The Furnace flared briefly, and then he did the proper (and polite) thing, worked his own shirt off in a show of solidarity for how she sat bare on his lap. It sailed off, and he’d drawn her back into a kiss before the piece had fallen to the floor.

Gone was the doubt. Gone was the restraint. And it turned out Redfield kissed much like he stood his ground against the unknown: With purpose and direction. A clear intent wrestled whatever control she’d had a moment before from her, just as easily as he lifted her from his lap and laid her out below him.

He drowned her in roiling hues long forgotten. Let her feel every crack and tear on him. Burnt her in the end.

But he’d arrived home, or so she thought. 

Hoped.

And maybe she had too. 


	31. Redfield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Chris wakes one-armed and misses himself a broom.

**REDFIELD**

* * *

**S** ometime between falling asleep and waking, Chris had lost his left arm.

A useless, heavy weight was what he’d been left with, ending in cold, stiff fingers and attached to a shoulder thoroughly done with shouldering— all of it pinned down by a mop of auburn hair resting on a squashed pillow.

 _Oh._ He blinked. _Ah shit..._

Nuzzled against him lay a bundle of regret, her thin shoulders tucked away in plain white sheets, and her face turned to half closed curtains allowing in late morning sun.

 _Regret_ , because this must have been a mistake. Must have been. Couldn’t be anything else.

A knee jerk reaction to the memory of an insistent kiss, the buck of convincing hips, and hunting hands. All terrible mistakes. Chris gathered them up and stacked them atop the pyre he’d started working on back in Edonia. It had an empty spot in the center.  Vaguely shaped to fit him, really, and he could almost hear the rattle of matches at the ready to set the whole thing on fire.

Sadja stirred. Murmured— or sighed or breathed —it was a distracted, empty noise and it came with her pressed flush against his front, all heated skin and more memories. Vivid ones.

Sluggish, out-of-touch emotions (ones that had forgotten to mail home years ago) knocked into the pyre. They levelled his hard work and used all the flammables he’d gathered to stoke a fire elsewhere.

Chris settled a hand against Sadja's side, felt her warmth seeping through the blankets against his palm, the promise of soft skin at the tip of his fingers. With a careful, slow motion, he dragged the cloth downward. It slid off her shoulder. Bunched up against her hip. Showed him her scarred, pale back with its dark markings and the dusting of colours for freckles. She still carried his tags. The chain had twisted around a little. Caught on the fine hair at the base of her neck.

Okay. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. Maybe doubt and remorse could wait. For a little while, anyway.

She shifted again. Had him reconsider breathing, and made things a little more complicated for however late in the morning it might have been. The sort of complication that was getting difficult to keep away from her.

 _You’re pushing forty,_ he thought. Puffed air at her ear. Her nose twitched. _Not twenty. Mellow down, Redfield._

“You’re awake,” Chris told the faking sleeper, and she rewarded him a quiet _Mh._

He squeezed her hip, his fingers pressing into skin. “What was that?”

“Yessir,” she mumbled. “But that don’t mean I’m getting up. It means I’m staying right here while you go make me breakfast.”

His brow knitted. His heart thumped a little harder.

_God…_

“Does it?”

“Mh.”

Chris worked a knot down his throat. His fingers splayed out against her pelvis, covered more ground. More of her. Sadja hummed again, her eyes stubbornly closed. Then she knocked her elbow into him, one quick rap against his chest, and a snatch for his hand to pull it away.

_I don’t think so._

Her wrist fit nicely into his hand when he grabbed it. Bony and warm and with a hint of fight in it as she tried to free herself. Something he wholeheartedly disagreed with. Chris flipped her onto her stomach. She complained with a muffled grunt into the pillow, her back squirming under him and her legs kicking as they tangled in the blanket between them. The motion woke his left arm, but the rush of pain as blood vessels opened and welcomed in an army of furious ants couldn’t have been less important right then and there.

“Not fair, Redfield—“

“Oh yeah?”

“I’m sleepy. I don’t tussle well while sleepy.”

Chris let his eyes dip low, at how the cloth crumpled up along at the small of her back, and the gentle flush of a quiet night’s sleep sitting on her skin. She stretched under him and he heard the pop of her joints, the click of her neck as she craned it to the side— with her eyes _still_ closed.

His lips itched. He wondered if she’d look if he placed a kiss against the nape of her neck. Or what she’d do if he traced the lightning down her back with his mouth.

“Won’t you get that?”

Chris blinked and froze mid-dive for the knobs of her spine. “What?”

_BZZzzt_

“That.”

_BZZzzt—BZZzzt_

“I—What— Shit—“ Chris reluctantly abandoned the warmth under him, rolled and pushed and sighed until he sat at the edge of the bed, and reached for his phone rumbling for attention.

* * *

 **H** e showered. Picked fresh clothing from his wardrobe (while she’d gone back to sleeping), and wandered a home he found both familiar and maddeningly alien.

Everything was as he’d left it months ago. The carpets hadn’t moved. Glasses and mugs were where he’d stacked them in the cupboards. Every drawer still held the same shit he’d stuffed into it, and there were two bills still hanging from the fridge. Paid. December 13th, 2012. Ten days before everything had gone to shit.

Chris tore them off. Chucked them into the trash.

Everything like he’d left it. Except himself, that still hadn’t quite realigned itself, even if the B.S.A.A had cleared him and found him fit to pick up where he’d left off.

Almost, anyway— there were dotted lines left to be signed. Physicals to do. Therapists to nod in agreement with, because _Yes ma’am, I’m fine_.

Chris ground his teeth together. His throat constricted. His chest squeezed, and he snapped the lever on the sink faucet aside hard enough to make the knock it noisily into the porcelain fitting.

“Shit,” he rasped and tried to refocus as the drag of something dark and unpleasant settled around his lungs.

Get water into the coffee machine. Add coffee. Spill a metric fuck ton of the fucking thing on the counter because the bag wouldn’t open. Curse. Swipe the dirt away. Curse a little more because you forgot where you’d put the broom—

It took the crunch of tires rolling up the driveway to stop him from lighting a cigarette and then setting the whole kitchen on fire for good measure, because that’d be less agitating than cleaning up his own mess. Deja Vu.

Outside, an engine rolled over and died, before footsteps came to a stop at his porch. He inhaled. Exhaled. Swiped a foot across the floor as if that’d hide the dusting of coffee grinds. It didn't. 

The knock that followed was familiar. And the angular face framed by red hair, with its grim, tight lipped smile and judging green eyes— that was just as he’d left it too.

“Hey sis.”

Claire got around him before the words had a chance to settle in the late spring air, fierce and unforgiving. Loving. Family.

And Chris remembered how much he’d missed her. _Remembered,_ because he’d forgotten, and you didn’t forget family, didn’t reduce them to a name with unkind thoughts attached to them. Or phone calls in-between desperate grasps for a life he'd unravelled. 

“I’m sorry,” he started, because that was the only thing he could think of now that she clung to him, smelling of leather and freshly washed hair.

She cut him off with a squeeze. “Shut up and invite me in for coffee.”

“Oh— yeah— right. Come on in.”

Four steps and he tried to apologise again. And again. And again. And his sister, stubborn as he’d left her, watched him from across the kitchen counter, her cup of coffee in front of her, and her words leading the conversation away from Edonia every time he tried to linger there.

She baited him into asking how her trip had been. What she’d been up to the last few days. Told him about power shifts within the B.S.A.A, and how she really shouldn’t know anything about that, since she had no business in there. Informed him, with proof flashing on her phone, that O'Brian had gotten another novel published, but that he spent more time advising with the B.S.A.A rather than writing since Neo Umbrella had knocked the world off balance. Teased him about missed game scores. Two movies he’d missed and would have liked, because unless she dragged him to them, he’d never go out.

Reminded him of friends that had missed _him._

“Barry is dying to see you. He’s asked me to tow your ass up to him and the girls if you’re not going to. Unless you want them down here, but I don’t think your place is big enough for the four of them.”

“I’ll get around to it…” He would. Eventually. Probably.

“Retirement is driving him up the wall, you know.”

“I bet.”

Chris frowned, felt her eyes on him as he paced along the kitchen. He _tried_ to stand still, but that made his feet itch. Weighted his insides with lead. “How long are you in town for?”

Hesitation.

“Not for long. I’m flying back this evening.” Her eyes came up to meet him as he’d finally managed to stop himself from pacing. “They need someone to oversee new operations in Europe.”

“You failed to mentioned that.”

“It slipped my mind.”

“You didn’t want to worry me.”

“No, I didn’t. You’ve got enough on your mind as it is.” At that she dipped a hand into a chest pocket and pinched out a thumb drive, thin and inconspicuous. “Here’s a little more.”

Chris watched her place the drive on the counter, the urge to just right out swoop it up making his fingers twitch.

“Everything circumstantial TerraSave has on Ada Wong, and what we’ve found since January about Neo Umbrella’s movements. It’s not much. But maybe it’ll make more sense if you have the analysts at the B.S.A.A go through it and match it against their intel.”

“You sure this won’t get you into trouble?” TerraSave might have been as _good guy_ as they’d ever come, but red tape was red tape. Bureaucracy slowed things down. There were channels to follow. Bottlenecks made of overworked men and women trying to keep up with a world insisting to throw itself into chaos. It created a waiting list. 

And he was done waiting.

“Nothing I can’t handle.” She tapped her fingers against the wood. Stared at him. Expected something. _Pointedly_ so.

“Thanks,” he tried and she cocked a brow at him.

“Come on Chris. Where is she?”

“What?”

“The Shielding girl Piers was on about.” His sister grinned, thought there might have been a hint of careful suspicion in there that she couldn’t quite mask. “He hates her, you know.”

Chris flinched. Yeah. No shit. “I don’t blame him.”

“And he had a lot of opinions about her." Claire hummed, her eyes fixed to him. Searching. "Said she tried to kill him when you first met. That she’s bad news and dangerous, and that it’s her fault you left.”

“She did. She’s not. And it wasn’t.”

He’d left his cup behind with Clair’s, wandered over to the coffee maker and swiped a third mug from the shelves. Right where he’d put it last December. But where'd he put that fucking broom? He filled it. Stared at the black liquid sloshing about until it almost spilled over the rim. Maybe he should have checked the broom cupboard. Sighing, he carried it with him and set it down next to him.

“You read my report?” They’d made him fill out a lot of those after he’d come back. A good chunk of them about his curious burden.  

“I have. His too, and it makes no _sense._ Did you know they’re _still_ labeling new shit they are finding on the bodies you two left behind? And you’re trying to explain this away with _Umbrella_?”

Chris contemplated his coffee— and the mug next to it. Full and steaming, and with no one to drink it. He frowned. Why’d he poured it?

“What did you call her? An unfortunate victim? One that just so happens to be entirely incompatible with every viral agent tried on her. _Incompatible_. Not immune. Not _human_ enough. And all you’ve got to say is she’s a byproduct?  An unexplained outlier? There were a lot of big words in those reports, Chris. And a lot of outliers following you around.”

Lying on paper had been easy. Lying to one fresh faced agent after the other a little less so. But lying to Claire?

“What aren’t you telling?”

Impossible.

“Sadja saved my life.”

“Did she?”

“Yeah. If she hadn’t found me in Edonia I would have probably frozen to death. And I don’t know about you, but I’d make a terrible popsicle.”

“I should thank her then?”

Chris shrugged.

“And you trust her?”

A nod this time, because Sadja had only lied to him about _everything._ Not like it could get any worse.

“Okay. Good enough for me. Here.” Claire flicked something at him, a small glint of metal arcing through the air, and Chris caught it as it sailed past.

Keys.

“Wha— Ah.”

Apartment keys. Claire’s spare place in town. The one he’d asked for, because his scientifically incompatible burden needed a place to stay. Since she couldn’t stay here. Not enough space. Couldn’t expect him to sleep on the couch forever. And he’d forgotten. Of course he’d forgotten. That’s what he did. His _thing._ He’d gone ahead and forgotten about asking Claire if she’d be okay lending out her place— somewhere between yesterday morning and last night’s assumed mistake.

Claire hummed. “Chris,” she said and he could _hear_ the questions in the mention of his name.

He turned to look at her and she nodded left, towards Sadja making her way down the stairs, her footfalls quiet and slow. Careful. Second guessing every step. Almost like she’d gotten shy.

She was wearing one of his shirts. It reached halfway to her knees over the worn out jeans, and it looked ridiculous. He liked it.

Claire glanced back at him. “Won’t be needing that key after all?” The question came with a pointed tilt of her brows and Chris replied with a short, noncommittal grunt.

Sadja, in the meantime, had zeroed in on the cup he’d prepped for her, and wrapped her fingers around it as if it was some sort of treasure. A small, short lived smile graced him as she took a whiff of the thin wisps of coffee fumes, and her shoulders twitched in appreciation.

He liked that too.

“Claire,” his sister introduced herself, a hand extended, and Sadja waited just long enough to allow the mug to heat her hand. Clever. Far as first impressions were concerned, a warm shake always helped.

But then she opened her mouth, and Chris flinched.

“You’re the prettier Redfield?”

Not like he’d had to worry: Claire’s smile brightened around the edges and she winked at him. “What gave it away? The jawline?”

Sadja _Mh’_ d her response and withdrew her hand, which went right back to the cup and escorted it to her lips.

“What have you got there?” His incompatible burden’s eyes went to the keys in his hand, and Chris felt something stall in his chest. It politely asked for him to lie…

“Claire offered to let you stay at her place in town.”

…and kicked at his heart in protest.

“Finally gotten tired of me, Redfield?”

Claire huffed. Bemused. And a little disappointed, if he knew his sister at all. Which he liked to think he did. Mostly, anyway.

“Maybe if you didn’t steal my clothes—“ He tugged the loose sleeve on her arm and earned himself a pout.

“Maybe if you’d have let me bring more of mine I wouldn’t have to.” Sadja’s hand darted forward, pinched the key from him. The _something_ in his chest whined. “What I’ve got is filthy and your washing-thing looks complicated.”

Another huff from Claire. “How does a trip to the mall sound? I can help you get fitted out if you’d like.”

Chris had an answer lined up for that. All ready to go: _No, that’s alright. You don’t need to. I’ve got it. Here, take the key back—_

“Fantastic!” Sadja slipped past him, and the damn key vanished under the shirt she’d borrowed. Right into a pocket on her pants. Accepted. Without protest. “Malls sound like fun. They’re fun, no? I bet they are. And while we’re there, I’ve got a lot of questions.”

“Hm?”

“Like, what’s he been like as a lad? Does he _ever_ smile? And is there ever a time he’s not all straight and neat?”

Chris felt both sets of eyes cut to him and tried a half-hearted protest: “Neat, huh?”

“Mh,” Sadja flicked a finger at his front. He curbed the urge to grab her wrist. “Even rumpled you’re all orderly. You’re more like to forget your head than to not line up your buttons.”

Claire snorted. Beamed. And if Chris was one to guess, scented blood.

  



	32. Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sadja holds very little regard for boredom, and two confused souls drift apart for all the wrong reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one includes the last intermission and look into Sadja’s life from Sinvik’s perspective.

 

**Intermission: Sinvik**

“ **N** o! You— how _could_ you? Who’s given you the right? How—“ My voice cracks. I choke on unsaid words. And in front of me, at the tip of my fingers pressed into his chest, the Pariah stands staring me down without a smidgen of remorse on him.

The sharp line of his lips sets in a frown. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t yield.

“I didn’t ask you to,” I whine.

“You didn’t need to.”

His voice is a hollow, dull hum to the room. I loathe it. May _Ro_ rip him from the world, drag him into the jaws of Hell, because he’s killed my sister and I’ve let him. 

**SIN**

* * *

**“H** ave mercy and kill me already—“

Sadja knocked her forehead against the window.

_THONK_

Once, then twice: _THONK, THONK_ and wanted very much for someone, or something, to come make good on that request.

“—please. I can’t take it any more.”

The glass pane cared little for her appeal, and the rainy afternoon outside kept plodding on without a care in the world. Metal beasties crawled through the grey streets. Colourful umbrellas shuffled along the sidewalk. The occasional dog lifted a leg against a wall before being tugged along— and everyone and everything remained stubbornly oblivious to her misery. Or very much aware and very much not caring.

Sadja groaned.

Boredom clutched to her something fierce. And she hated it. Missed dying. Missed everything but the walls around her, that new prison of her’s Redfield had left her in.

Not like he’d taken the key or anything and locked her in— or strapped her to a bed again or some other such nonsense.

No. There might have been a smidgen of fun in that. The challenge of escape. No, this was _dull._

He’d just handed her a phone of her very own, looked at her all stern like, and asked her not to cause any trouble while he went and dug at his life. One throw of the proverbial shovel at a time, she figured. And always finding something new, or old as thing so were, to give him pause. Each discovery held the potential to rile up what he’d tried so hard to leave behind in Edonia, but brought along anyway, because grief was a clingy bitch. A bit like boredom, the flat monotony of things easy and quiet.

Blinking, Sadja watched rivulets of water race down the window, how they ran from drop to drop on their way to the bottom. Her forehead pressed harder against the glass. Her knuckles rapped against it.

“Gnnah—“ she whined and stepped away, padded barefooted to the couch and slumped down atop of it. A dramatic sigh accompanied her on the way down, and ended in a puffed sort of grunt.

“Someone come try end me already,” she told the whole lot of nothing around her. “This is unbearable.”

Her eyes flicked through the room. For the hundredth time, maybe.

Where the brother lived spartan, the Redfield sister lived _snug._ Even for a place that wasn’t meant to be home, but only offer a roof when needed, she’d turned it into a comforting shelter. A soft couch doubling as a bed with a bit of adjusting (because no bedroom). Plenty of cushions. Fuzzy, clean carpets. Pretty curtains. And a kitchen with proper chairs and a table for two.

The bathroom even had a tub. Her brother’s didn’t. She supposed the Furnace couldn’t be arsed wasting time in soaking in water if a brisk shower would do the trick just as neatly.

Shame. Baths were somewhat entertaining.

Sadja reached for her journal discarded on the table, sat up with her legs crossed, and bared the pages on her lap.  ❛ **_Day 82,_** ❜ looked terribly bland still, with nothing much to it but a bit of incoherent rambling in which she’d complained about having spent two days on her own, bored to tears, with only her wandering mind and a jittery beast for company. Very jittery, with the bars to its cage thrumming an uneasy tune.

She flipped the pages.

Before that, ❛ **_Day 78,_** ❜ had been… different? It had brought Redfield and his discord about a night of allowing himself peace and a bit of warmth. Grant himself self-indulgence, to give in to the heady buzz of shedding control. Be greedy. Be _wanting._

Sadja’s lips set in a frown. 

Why did the Furnace have to be so complicated? 

 

> ❛ _He’s trying to repent still,_ ❜ she’d written. ❛ _Chasing a sin long forgiven. Or maybe he’s just not the type for letting go. I’ve not got the faintest idea. While one day I think I know the man, the next he shakes off a piece of him, and I’m left picking up the pieces to try and puzzle them back together. He’s hard work, that one._ ❜

Sadja’s eyes skipped across the page.

 

> ❛ _So come morning, he splattered my gates with unease and doubt, and then I got to meet a sister brimming with fierce, protective love. Delightful. She trusted me about as far as she might be able to throw her brother. But this here Cad’his is used to being a suspect of all things wicket, and she can cope. I suppose._ ❜

There’d been the visit to the _mall_ too, and Sadja remembered how she’d felt out of place in the bustle of bodies and timid souls. The Redfields had talked. She’d listened. Watched. And then she’d gathered everything she owned in her pack and a duffle, and been brought to a new door.

 _”You remember how this works?”_ He’d nodded to the phone he’d just given her, a thin slab in white with plenty of room for pictures. They’d unpacked it at the mall while they’d sat and eaten soggy _burgers._ Dreadful stuff.

She’d looked at it and _Mh’_ d in affirmation. ‘Course she did.

_”Call me if you need anything. If I’m not at the office I’ll be over in twenty, okay?”_

_Mh,_ she’d gone again. His lips had pursed, battled a frown or a smile, or maybe they’d been itching to bite her. She hadn’t found out.

_”Anything.”_

Excuse me, Sir— who’d he think she was? This here fledgling Keeper needed no one. For anything. Really. Cross her heart and kiss Elaya’s hem. No one.

So she’d not called.

Sadja danced between pages full of sketches, bits and bobs she’d remembered from when she’d shuffled through the mall, sniffing through every building they led her into and wondering whatever people did with all that _stuff._

He’d not called either.

But he’d bumped into her door on ❛ **_Day 79,_** ❜ with grim business to his frown, and churning up the Hem around her with grinding worry.

 

> ❛ _”You ready?” The Furnace asked, and yeah— I suppose I am, because it’s time to put on a show. Be at my best behaviour for what’s to come. Lots of talk. Bits of lies. Shreds of truths._
> 
> _But for a few heartbeats I’m standing rooted to the my threshold, and there’s a curse on my tongue. Because I’ve got my boots on already and my new jacket shrugged on my shoulders, even before he’s rapped his knuckles on the door._
> 
> _How?_
> 
> _Moments before, I’d felt a need to walk._
> 
> _To be there._
> 
> _Ready._
> 
> _A tug on me that I can’t put words to. One moment I’m contemplating how to get music to play from that stupid phone (because he’s shown me how, and now I’ve forgotten), the next I’m on a mission no one sent me on. My very own soul having a mind of its own. Or rather, the beast slipping from its cage and dragging its chains behind it._
> 
> _There’s a flutter in my gut, too. Familiarity. Rest._ Shelter _._
> 
> _I don’t_ **_understand,_ ** _and I want to tell him that. Ask him why. Ask him how he's tethered me. But I don’t. No point to it, really._
> 
> _So I’m going to mull about this later._ ❜

She’d already done a lot of thinking on it, but hadn’t gotten anywhere, and as she scanned her words they made just about as much sense as they had the first time she’d noticed that something must have gone wrong.

Somewhere between her dying and the Pariah’s intervention to such, Redfield had stepped in too close. And he’d never quite left. Had left something behind. And had taken bits of her with him. Or maybe he'd thrown an anchor. Slapped shackles onto the bristling Beast. One of them. Maybe all. She sighed, went back to reading.

 

> ❛ _He’s impeccable today. Shirt so straight he probably lined it up with a ruler, and the shadow on his cheeks neatly trimmed. But his hair isn’t so lucky._
> 
> _I watch him run his fingers through it a few times as he walks me to the bulky metal beastie. Then again as he drives, a nervous flick of his palm up along his nape or along his forehead. By the time we’re back at the pen he calls home, the one full of heroes— people doing the right thing in the face of wrong —it’s a proper mess._
> 
> _”Redfield,” I tell him as he stands ready to march me into the elevator-thing, and he looks at me with a pinch to his brow. Then the brow gets all worked up when I get in close and comb my fingers through his hair trying to get it to behave._ ❜

Sadja’s lips itched, wanting for a smile. He’d recoiled around her, a quick jerk of what amounted to him falling away. That had smarted a tad, like he’d hooked bits of him into her and torn them out because he’d forgotten to let go. Again.

More mystery— another _How?_ —but she’d bit the question back, had sorted out the unruly mop on him, and stepped away right about when he’d come around. His hand had hovered close by her side. Second guessing itself and fighting the instinct that made his fingers twitch. It had fallen away before it had a chance to land.

 

> ❛ _”Behave,” he adds quietly a few steps away from my interrogation. I smile, ask him to have a little faith, and then go and do what a Cad’his shines at, even at her muddiest of days: **Lie**. _
> 
> _It’s why we’re hated something fierce, why trust is hard to come by once you’re labelled a Shyster, because if you’re good then you’re_ good, _and a lie from your lips tastes like the sweetest of truths._
> 
> _”Another perk?” The Furnace asks after, and I swear I can see his shoulders sag a tad. Timid relief, as if he’d worried for my life. And maybe he had. Maybe if they’d not believed me they’d put me away, no matter his protest. I don’t know, and I’m not about to press, because I like that he’s shed a fraction of his worries._
> 
> _No need to prod at them._
> 
> _I nod. He doesn’t question. And moves on with his life._ ❜

He’d brought her back to this sister’s place after, stopped his metal beastie by the curb in front of the door leading up into the tall building with all its little hovels in it. Had looked at her from across his seat. Hadn’t said a thing. And she’d climbed out and headed upstairs, left him to drive off and continue on his quest to patch his life back together.

Sadja skipped forward again, not liking the memory of that departure much, remembering the disappointment that had come with it.

She skipped ❛ **_Day 80_** ❜, because that was a terrible mess. A day spent, and wasted, trying to get the Cataract to lend an ear. To tell her what to do. Or to bring her home, if it wasn’t too much of a bother. Even if the thought tickled her the wrong way, and she’d kicked at the notion with frustration.

Nothing had come of it, of course. The Cataract remained stoically silent and absent, a parent gone out and then never having come back, leaving her drifting alone with uncertainty for a guide.

❛ **_Day 81_** ❜ brought boredom and idle fingers stoking at a homesickness she’d have liked to deny. Sketches of familiarity had piled up on the kitchen table, one sheet at a time. She would have rather liked not to look at them. Think about the places she’d put on them. The faces. Still somewhat vivid in her mind, but with a tendency to smudge on the details. That irked her.

Sadja allowed herself a drawn out exhale. Flipped the journal shut. Tossed it against the couch. Stood.

She followed an idea. A hint of a suggestion. Gentle pressure where there shouldn’t be any, convincing her to unlock the door.

Again.

 _CLICK_ the lock went and she padded off, went to righten the cushions strewn across the couch. Flicked the lights on, because she liked the gloom, but maybe he didn’t.

Redfield didn’t knock.

Or if he did, it’d been a tap so shy it didn’t carry through the wood. He stepped into the room. Slow. Careful, his eyes scanning the place and finding her dragging a fresh shirt over her head. The other hand had started feeling sticky.

 _Hello,_ remained woefully unsaid.

A white bag clutched in one hand, and the other flicking water from his hair, the Furnace marched himself to the kitchen. She followed, caught a whiff of something divine tucked out of sight in the mystery he’d brought, and her stomach hurt in anticipation.

He placed the bag on the counter and started unpacking, neatly arranging white boxes with silver lids in front of her. His movements stuttered a little when she sidled up next to him, slowing. Stopping. A curious set of muddy blue eyes cut to her and stared.

“Boots,” she eventually said when the Furnace bounced against her gates in a proper disarray.

He scowled.

“Have some respect for your sister, Redfield.”

He grunted, went to carry his wet footprints back to the door, and left Sadja curious pinching at the packages of food.

“What is this then?”

“Chinese,” he called back. Far away at first, and then much, much closer, his voice nipping at her neck. “You haven’t had that yet.”

An arm appeared to her left. Another to her right. Corralled her against the counter with a neat cage made of slightly damp arms where water had soaked through the coat he’d shrugged off. The hands attached to them worked on unboxing the bits he’d left untouched, busying themselves while she stood in the way. Pop a lid here. One there. Knock into her side. Get a thigh cozy with her rump.

An ardent _WHUMP_ worked hard on throwing her heart off-beat, the knock of him at her gates a tattered blaze.

Tattered. Badly worn. And very much on fire again.

Sadja frowned and craned her neck. She caught him blinking down at her, and felt his left arm drifting away. Making room for her. Or himself, whichever way one might have liked to look at it.

“Tough days at the pen?” Her question got his right brow up, but even if he sometimes liked to make a show if it, the Furnace wasn’t daft and connected dots quick as a fox found a mouse scurrying under the snow.

He nodded. Held himself still, his chest and the habit of breathing the only movement worth noting.

Sadja considered the silence he’d wrapped himself in. Fake calm danced out of control behind a heavy stare, and gale winds tore at her gates with mean flames she’d thought he’d doused. Something must have lit them back up. A shame, that. She turned, her shoulder dragging across his chest. Watchful eyes tracked her. Asked her what she was up to, if anything at all, until she stood facing him with her spine grating against the counter and her gates buckling a little under the weight of him.

His lips pressed together in a sharp line. Determined. Hurting. Breaking again, as if he’d forgotten how to be a sum of things, that being whole wasn’t something to be terrified of.

He tried, at least. One heartbeat a forward motion, a minuscule tilt of his torso and dip of his head. A second beat of doubt. A third nothing but a thick swallow and a shift to the side.

Tried, until an ugly guest stepped between them. Guilt, that clingy piece of shit.

“Get some cutlery,” the hot mess croaked and she’d have liked to roll her eyes at him. Tell him he was being ridiculous, but her stomach muttered that her chiding him could wait.

* * *

 **_C_** _hinese_ was downright sinful, Sadja decided a few minutes later, right about the time she worked a particularly problematic noodle into her mouth.

“Are you going to—“ _SLURP_ “—finish that?” She jabbed her fork at the halfway abandoned container of beef drowning in a magical mix.

Redfield’s eyes cut up from where he’d taken to studying her pile of memories. One sheet at a time. Careful. Attentive. He worked a faint smile onto his lips and gave the food a nudge into her direction.

“Elaya bless you,” she said and hooked her fork into the edge of it to pull it towards her. “Bells and whistles and kisses and all.”

“Elaya,” he repeated, getting the _Y_ almost right. “Tell me about her.”’

Sadja cocked her head to the side. “Hrrmh.” She shovelled the leftover food onto her plate.

“She’s the steadfast. The absolute. Our benefactor. Mistress to the Reapers. Mother to Tre and Ro, one mischief, the other penance.” A generous bite from her fork interrupted her just long enough for her to start chewing. “If you believe that sort of stuff, at any rate. For all I know it’s all just bull, or maybe it’s the truth and when Lady Death comes knocking at my door she’ll take me right to Elaya’s court and have me judged.” She shrugged. “No one ’s ever met any of ‘em.”

Truth, that. Far as the all powerful were concerned, she’d just as likely bend her knee to the Nightingale. And then hope for the best, because fuck that cunt.

Across of her, Redfield digested her words and went back to flicking through the sketches. Three bites later he turned one towards her. “And her?”

Sadja frowned at it. Felt a little cold. A little warm. A little sad, because the curl of thin lips smiling back at her from the page stoked love left on the other side of the Cataract’s fickle favours.

“Keeper Sinvik Shielding.”

A careful noise made it up his throat. The curiously flinging itself at her gates, all tickles and nips, was a lot less subtle about it. And it still burnt. Damn that man.

“Your sister?”

“Mh. By marriage, not blood, but my sister all the same.”

“Marriage? Like, sister in law?”

Sadja sniffed. “No.”

He blinked. Turned the page to look at it again. Stared, actually. Not quite understanding, and when he looked at her from over the edge of the paper he had enough questions sitting in the muddy blue stare to sink her to the bottom floor.

“You marry here too, no? Tie yourselves together, united for life and all that.”

“Uh—“ Another blink. “Yeah. But—“ He paused. Considered his words, then considered her sitting with the fork sticking from her mouth.

“What is it, Redfield?” The words came out butchered and muffled, since she couldn’t be bothered swallowing.

“You marry when you want to start a family,” he started, his tone hinting at something professional, like she needed educating. “Love someone. Mostly..”

Her lips twitched. _Flustered again? I can work with that._

“Of course I love her,” she said.

His eyes went back to the drawing. Then back to her, and she let him dangle out there with confusion on the loose. For a little while, at any rate, because she thought he looked cute while ruffled by something he couldn’t quite understand.

“You’re holding out on me here,” he eventually muttered and let the page fall back into the pile, Sinvik side up. The likeness of the Keeper seemed to have put on a bigger smile, and Sadja liked to think she’d winked at her. “Sister. Wife. Which one is she really? I mean— you’re— I— Are you… ?”

Sadja pursed her lips and sucked another noodle into her mouth. It smacked against her nose on the way in, left a proper mess, and Redfield stared at her as she ran the back of her hand across her face.

“Sinvik married me for my sins, to hold the burden of them. I’m tied to her as family, and as family she’s pledged to keep me true." As she said that, she laid her left arm down, palm up. Tapped the fork against the tattoos on her wrist: the Ward's binding circle, and the Shielding crest. "To see judgement done if I step wrong, or bring me forward if I overstep.”

“Huh.”

“It’s complicated,” she said and shrugged.

“No shit. Keep talking.”

“We don’t marry for love. Not all the while, anyway. We’re duty-bound when we swear ourselves to a person, to share their life and carry what they can’t. For a Sare though it’s a little different still. Without a contract to keep us bonded, we’re not allowed to leave our garrison, so when—” She huffed. Her teeth clicked shut. Across the table, Redfield’s brow furrowed, as if he’d caught the pang of hurt. The guilt and the regret that had come with her rambling, a breath away from _When I killed Ceat._

“Sinvik had to. Or I’d have been blinded and tossed down some pit to be forgotten.” She pressed a finger to the Ward's circle. "This was Ceat's. Me pledged to him. This-" another tap, more gentle this time, to the mark below "-is Sinvik's. Each marriage, each union, no matter the purpose, lives on our skin after we've said our vows."

Redfield’s chin dipped slightly. His eyes set themselves on her. A hint of something gentle sat in them, softened the usual sharp edge of his brow. She’d told him of the blinding, of how you discarded a Sare when they weren’t of any use anymore. Or had overstepped once too often. Told him of scalding hot irons and empty, bleeding sockets for eyes. He’d shoved his coffee away after that and grumbled.

"You keep them forever?"

"Mh."

"And you just-" He stared at the marks. "-keep adding to them?"

"Mh."

His brow pinched.

"Yes, Sir. What do _you_ do?"

Redfield snorted, an unexpected half laugh. "Rings, usually."

"But you only have ten fingers... That'll get terribly crowded."

The half-laugh turned to a choking noise and his eyes flew to her, sort of spelling  _You said what now?_

"It's not uncommon for people to tie themselves to many. Family. Lovers. Partners to share the burden of raising a child, or lift the weight of leadership. And sometimes they just like collecting pledges, many as they can get. It's sort of a... thing? Least in some corners, especially across the Buckle."

He blinked, then nodded, indicating some closure to the matter. Somewhat, anyway. “She looks lovely.”

“She does.” Her eyes cut to Sinvik. “She is.”

“You miss her.”

“Mh…” On the paper, Sinvik looked a little sad now, had lost the smirk she’d tried to paint her with. And uncounted realities too far away.

“What was that?”

His words carried a smile, she thought. Small. Tentative, and when she turned her eyes to him she caught the tail end of it. It twitched a little at her “Yessir.” Then dove back for cover, because between the two of them they couldn’t quite decide how to make themselves work proper.

Both ran from things unkind. Both missed bits, and feared that they wouldn’t fit any more if they’d ever found them. Or if they even wanted them to.

Sadja finished her food. Redfield kept to picking through her drawings, but his questions stayed clear of faces and the memories of them.

And when he left, she regretted not asking him to stay.


	33. Bedside Manners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Redfield falls a little. And proves himself inept at pillow talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes **Part 5, Acclimatization** , and leads us into the final arc.

**BEDSIDE MANNERS**

* * *

  **D** ull, dusty light. The smell of coffee and fading ink— Chris pinched the bridge of his nose. Squeezed his eyes shut. Not tired, no. No time for that. No _room._ Just a headache with a hard edge, impossibly loud in the silence of an office abandoned for the night.

Abandoned, save for two idiots.

One of which sighed, rustled paper with agitation, and muttered: “Shit, Captain. It’s eleven thirty. I’m beat.”

Chris turned his neck. Left. Right. Stretched strained muscles dragging against his shoulders and back, and wished they’d stop with the pain. The lot of him pinched when he moved, offended by what he’d put it through trying to prove all he’d lost was time.

Nothing more.

Really.

It was perfectly normal to feel two days of battery catch up with him, now that he’d committed himself to spending what was left of them hunched over a low desk in a ring of solitary light.

Perfectly.

“I’m not keeping you here,” he said. Squeezed his neck. Heard something _POP_ when he moved. “Go home. Hug your girlfriend or something.”

A scoff— and the soft creak of a chair moving as Piers shifted his weight.

“Emma,” Piers said. “Her name is Emma. And she’d like to meet you, if you could just— just—“

Chris looked up, caught Piers with his arms halfway lifted, a defeated shrug to all of him, his slumped shoulders and his slightly bent neck.

“— _stop_ for a little while.”

“I will.” He tapped at a thin stack of papers to his left. Mercifully thin. His eyes flicked right, to the box of discarded evidence prints at the foot of the table: Wasted time. A lot of it.

“You’re obsessing.”

“Hm,” he hummed, drew a page from the stack. Flipped it over. Started skimming it, the finely printed black words deciding to blend and smudge on the paper. “Pot. Kettle.”

Lips smacked together, and Piers scoffed. “That’s different. _We were worried.”_

“Thanks.” Curt. To the point. _Annoyed,_ but entirely genuine, if a little too sharply edged.

“Christ, Captain— You’re not doing this alone.”

Not this one, no, and Chris frowned at the garbage for words on in front of him. Pinched his nose again. Gritted his teeth. Remembered takeout food and a bed full of papers after Racoon City, between the S.T.A.R.S and the B.S.A.A. Chasing the behemoth that had been Umbrella.

On his own, because no one had been around to listen. They’d been dead. Most of them, at any rate.

He’d been a lot younger then. A lot less creaky. A lot less… _this._ His ears buzzed, brought a distant echo of a ring sitting at the back of his head. Brought a squeeze to his lungs. Cold, heavy lead to his gut.

“We’ve got a whole section of analysts looking for Wong,” Piers continued. “They’ll find her. With or without you. Go get some sleep.”

Chris flicked the uncooperative paper aside. “Okay.”

“Because if you don—“ Piers paused. Stared at him from across the table, his arms folded behind his head. “What?”

“Okay,” he repeated, a slow, hard breath trapped in his chest. “You’re right. This is—” his left arm struck out. Dragged across the table, caught the papers and sent them flying. Scattered pens. Knocked a mug over. It rolled. Tipped. Shattered on the floor with a muted, hollow _THOP._ “—Pointless.”

“Captain…”

“Go _home,_ Piers.”

“I’m not goi—“ The protest died, cut short by a sharp glare levelled forward. Piers met the stare, stubborn and _disappointed_ , and Chris wanted to apologise.

_Sorry— I’m just tired._

_Look, Piers, I’ll be done soon. Just let me finish_ this.

_I need to do this._

_Can’t not._

Because putting rounds into paper targets and proving to Piers he could still hold his own on the mat, even after he’d lost three months, wasn’t worth shit. Waiting for someone, somewhere, to catch a whiff of the woman who’d murdered his men wouldn’t _do._

The hollow “Sir…” as Piers got to his feet stung more than the disappointment and the quiet judgement. And the hand dropping on his shoulder, the firm, reassuring squeeze of a friend not yet giving up on him, snapped a piece of him and left him stranded.

Chris listened for the door close. Felt the silence creep closer. Dark. Hungry. Gnawing at the ring of dull, dusty light. Turning the smell of coffee and fading ink to blood and smoke.

* * *

 **H** e gathered the papers back up. Scooped porcelain shards into a bin. Wandered to the bathroom. Fetched paper towels. Watched them stain with coffee. Tossed those, too.

Sat. Waited. For his heart to stop limping like a beat dog, for the pressure at the back of his throat to lift, and the faint ringing in his ears to pass.

They didn’t.

His fingers curled into fists. Tightened. Clenched. Released— and repeated the motion until the world stopped rushing by outside the ring of light he’d trapped himself in, a howl of movement dragging by as if to taunt him that he was too _slow._

Useless and slow and with nothing but shame to his name.

Chris snapped his hand down on the papers. Piled them together and shoved them into a folder.

He needed a drink.

 _Home_ then, with what was left of a chance to redemption squeezed under his arm.

Thin and insignificant. A feeble grasp at peace.

* * *

 **T** he SUV rolled to a halt on the curb with its tires crunching and its frame setting with the creak of metal and plastic. The engine rolled over. Died with a throaty hiccup and gave up to silence. The half past midnight sort, squashed up against the windshield and carried by the bleak light of street lamps.

Chris exhaled. Leaned into the seat. Listened to the soft whistle of the tiring hush, and the pop and click of the engine cooling in front of him.

Home. Maybe. The tug of a noose tightened around his neck.

The seat-belt came off. He swiped the papers from the passenger seat, clutched them tight in one hand. As he climbed out, a lungful of midnight air, wet and chilled, brought the suggestion of a cold shiver.

Chris tried to think. Tried to latch on to _It’s cold. Where did I leave my coat?_ or to make sense of the thick layer of _numb_ fastened to him, pooling around him like unyielding sludge. Every step turned to a burden, every breath to hard work with his lungs hollow, yet impossibly heavy. Weary.

He found a door. One that didn’t look quite right. Climbed stairs he thought were maddeningly _plenty,_ and stopped with the tips of his boots touching a threshold leaking music.

Chris blinked, stared at his knuckles ready to fall against the door.

 _Claire Redfield_ a neat set of letters spelled below his fist.

“Sorry,” he told the sign. “Wrong door.” Must have missed an exit somewhere. Took the wrong turn.

His tongue pushed against the top of his mouth, and he choked on whatever lined his throat. It was dry. Sharp. And it didn’t go down easy, kept clinging on until he thought it’d suffocate him. Chris stood and stared at his arm still held aloft, felt dizzy with the idea that the hand didn’t come attached to his shoulder, that the wrist turning on his request wasn’t a part of him. They were a stranger’s who’d decided to look like him. Mimic him. Fool him. Play the whole damn world for idiots— and when he pulled his fingers into a tight fist, tried to convince himself to be _here,_ all it brought was anger lunging for him.

A thump of white knuckled, desperate heat.

His lips set into a hard, sharp line, and he broke away from the door, away from what— who —waited on the other side, because he didn’t understand it. Her. _Them._ Hadn’t ever. Wouldn’t ever. Couldn’t put words to it without reeling in circles.

Hinges whispered. Wood crept across the floor, and music blended with the ringing in his ears. Louder than that, more insistent than the white noise. Chris paused, looked over his shoulder to find a crack in his world. Vaguely shaped like his sister’s doorway. Empty. But open. A slim chance at _something_ he didn’t know how to want or need.

He took it anyway, stepped into warm, humid air roiling against him.

She stood behind her threshold. Her arms were folded and her chin up in a combative sort of invitation. Bare footed. A plain white undershirt over gray slacks. Didn’t say _Come in_ , or _Hello_ , but waited for him to step through before she locked the crack behind him.

Her hair was wet, he noted numbly. The shirt too, darker where it clung to her back and stretched across her collarbone. She smelled of soap. Of things wild and unnamed— of the confines of a rumbling Audi, a hint of leather still clinging to her, even though he knew he only imagined that.

 _What is it?_ the curious tilt of her brow and the brief quirk of her lips spelled, and Chris tried a _Hey_ in response, but the word tapered off, had itself butchered into a weary breath.

Sadja hummed, gave a curt jut of her head into the two room apartment, and tore the papers from his hand when he followed her nod.

A pair of beer bottles stood on the kitchen table. One on each side. Open. Untouched. His stomach twisted. His throat clicked, mouth dry. _Wanted._

Another sluggish scan through the apartment, and he found the couch bed pulled out, a mess of pillows and blankets resting on it. The floor looked wet. Footprints trailed from the bathroom. Fogged up windows stood against the night, and the air went down thick, and he remembered closed bathroom doors and the sound of running water. His _"Are you fucking done yet?"_ and her  _"Not quite. Have a little patience."_

_"You've been there for an hour..."_

_"...I like warm water. Sod off."_

A jolt ran up his arm and Chris flinched with an involuntary jerk of his shoulder. 

His eyes cut back to her, found her fingers resting against his wrist. Feathery light on his skin, his pulse beating against the touch.

“Where are you, Redfield?”

He frowned. _Here_ he should have replied. But he stared at her instead, his lips parted in an attempt to form an answer out of scattered words. 

“I can see you right in front of me,” Sadja said. Slipped her fingers into his. Locking them together, her palm flush against his own.

“And you look dreadful. So dreadful—“ She towed herself closer, left barely enough room between them to fit his ranting heart. “But you’re not _here._ ”

He followed when she pulled. Kept his eyes on the top of her head— the slope of her neck— the corkscrew markings curling against her spine. Remembered the sting of antiseptics in his nose. A creaking bed under his knees.

Needle and thread in his hands. 

“Oh, and don’t think I’m not just a little tired of being your wayside refuge when you’ve got yourself lost again.”

He remembered the taste of blood on his lips. Dizzy, unsteady steps carrying him through the cold.

Another needle. Some more thread. In her hands this time.

Another tug, because his legs had stopped walking. She tugged, and so did he, earning himself a soft exclamation of protest hitched low in her throat. A purr for a growl, and she looked at him with the same honey coloured stare she’d regarded him with while he’d forgotten himself one New Year’s Eve beneath a sky alight with fireworks, and him hollow.

The stare didn't falter, and she waited. Patient. _Forgiving,_ no matter the crime. 

Sadja shifted closer, a slow drift that carried her against him. His arm came up— _his,_ not the impostor's who’d walked him up the stairs —cupped a hand against her face. Felt too warm skin, still a little flush from a too long shower, and damp hair slipping through his fingers. Cool and soft. Barely two inches long because she’d almost died, and he didn’t want to think of the broken, shattered body in the sand, the _CRACK_ of her ribs underneath his palm. Cold, dry lips without breath.

Dead, because death walked by him, rode him with delight. Left him with a tally of names. Left him _losing,_ and he’d grown so tired of standing while they all lay discarded, reduced to statistic in a ledger. Evidence.

“Where—“ He followed her voice downwards, bowed his head until his lashes caught on her hair, a hint of honey tickling his nose. “—are you?”

“Here,” Chris rasped.

“Nh,” she breathed, lifted his arm against her side. Her fingers locked tighter. Thin and bony and strong. “Not quite. Not _yet_. Where are you.”

He wanted to groan. Rant. Rave into the mop of hair, because she wasn’t making any sense. He was right _here._  One hand splayed out against her hip, the soft fabric of her pants against his palm and the sharp ridge of bone pushing out. Her breath tickled warmth against the crook of his neck. Slow and steady, a measure to how long he stood wrestling a muddy mind for words.

Eventually, his lips moved. They mouthed _help me._ Added _please_ with a reluctant exhale.

And she clicked her tongue, as if she’d heard him just fine, read the world his lips had spelled into her hair as clear as if he’d said them out loud. Which he might have. He wasn’t altogether sure, didn’t know if he still sat in a ring of dull, dusty light instead of standing here. Or if he was really here— in his sister’s apartment. Here—  

_Ah._

Chris tried again: “With you.”

Half question, half statement, and his heart slammed into his chest without warning. Ferocious. Desperate. Wanting this to be the right answer, because he couldn’t think what else could possible do.

Her response came with a puff of air against his collarbone, and he felt a hint of amusement tickling the back of his throat. It came unbidden in the dirt lining his insides. Not quite _him,_ and that made no sense whatsoever. A little wild. A little her.

“Almost,” Sadja hummed, and Chris felt dejected by the word. Momentarily, anyway, because all he had to do was prove he’d gotten it right.

So he turned her chin up. Found the corner of her mouth with his, the soft curve of her lips. Uncomplicated and made of nothing but her, without stale alcohol or thick smoke between them. They fit against him, parted with a clumsy suggestion, and drew him into a stumbling chase.

Until her teeth nipped at him and her hip bumped forward. Hitched his breath in his throat. Ran his thoughts off a cliff. And his hands down her sides, a sweep of his fingers against the small of her back and the curve of her rump underneath a layer of clothing he suddenly found offensive.

“Better,” she murmured into the kiss, now no longer gawky and soft, but raw with strained want. Senseless. Heedless.

Simple.

Chris broke away from her. Long enough to catch her staring after him, her lips still parted, flushed and crooked with the hint of a smile. Maybe wanting him back.

He looked around. The table behind her mocked him with the two bottles of beer, and with the glaring fact of _Claire’s table,_ driving him a step away from it.

Sadja followed, a line of warmth at his front, and Chris glanced left and right. His mind limped away from _Claire’s kitchen counter_ and _Claire’s couch—_ sidetracked itself with the discomfort of an inconsiderate pair of jeans —and eventually beached against her lips in the hollow of his throat. 

Oh— right. He’d forgotten.

She couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t idle. Couldn’t _not._ Her fingers slipped under his shirt, left cloth whispering in the wake of questing fingers. She kept climbing, hitched the shirt higher and higher until she couldn't reach any further, and Chris threw it off before she crawled under it. 

She huffed. Grazed him with a nip of her teeth on his chest, her mouth pulled into a smile against him, and Chris choked down a laugh that tasted heady and restless. More her than him again.

An insistent tug at his belt brought her forward. Brought her up— legs slung around him, arms propped up on his shoulders. He felt her twisting spine against his palm. Her forehead pressed against his. Nose bumping his. Lips meeting him when he snapped a hand around her neck.

All of her turned to gleeful heat against his chest, and a rattle of red hot embers under his heart that he couldn’t put out.

Even if he’d have wanted to.

Which he didn't.

Hell no.

* * *

 **H** e’d arrived undone. Set aside from himself, a soul no longer fitting the cast it’d been poured into. Not _worse_ than when she’d found him, but different.

A little desolate. Not belonging to him, with its purpose forgotten.

Hard work, that one, because there hadn’t been a thing she could do but let him figure it out himself. She’d let him drift in. Out. In. Let him kick up dust around her while he’d gone looking for himself.

Again.

And now that the dust had settled, Sadja allowed herself a moment of reluctant quiet, with the beat of his heart against her ear awfully out of tune with the drums of the music still flitting through the room.

She wondered if he’d get up. Leave. If he’d come back— and if so, if it’d take him another two days. Or maybe three. Four. All manners of days in which all manners of things could happen.

Maybe that was why she’d latched herself to his side, and why she’d not said a word, because if she did he might decide to stop thinking and start _doing_. And maybe that was why she’d bolted her gates shut, hoping to leave some of his discord out there.

He sighed. A long, drawn out sound ending in a carefully tucked away murmur in his chest. Sadja liked how it reverberated off her. Liked him here. Because him not here, that was her alone. Solidary jetsam, without purpose and direction.

_Lo-ne-ly_

This was better. Him here, that was better, right where they’d fallen. Landed. Or _thrown,_ in her case. Right here, a gentle ache to a lot of her, with a blanket half-arsedly thrown over them, and offended pillows scattered on the bed. And off it, too.

Sadja swallowed an uncertain lump as she felt a careful palm trace her arm. _Get up,_ he’d ask her. _I’ve got to go. Places to be. Brooding to do._

Instead, his fingers found a purpose. Traced the jagged lines looping around her biceps, and he held his breath just long enough to pique her interest.

“How long did they make you wear them?” His voice came out on rickety stilts. Thick and uneven.

“Since I was fourteen,” she said. “And I’d still be wearing them if Sinvik hadn’t thought they go terrible with being free.”

“You didn’t want them off? Why?”

She frowned. Shrugged. Felt the hand on her arm play with the idea of tightening.

“I— Not at first. Why would I? With them, I was useful enough. Not a threat. The best I could manage was to sniff out a Sare, a bit like a two legged hound. Except prettier. Much prettier. I swear.”

He puffed out air. A chuckle, and she liked the sound of that.

“If I _really_ tried, then I could pin a lie, but the liar had to be terrible, because when you’ve got voidmite strapped to you things get a bit— bit— vague? It’s all bits and pieces. Whispers don’t _whisper_ , much as they mumble, like you’ve got a bucket turned over them. Does that make sense?”

“Uh—”

No, course it didn’t, and Sadja smiled, kept talking.

“So when Sinvik took them off, I— I guess I fell out of my tree a little. Didn’t land well.”

“You did what?”

“I got a bit erratic. Twenty years are a long time to forget how everyone and _everything_ has an opinion. And all of a sudden I’m standing there and it’s all very loud. It was horrid. Scary.”

His hand wandered until it slipped around the joints of her wrist, and his thumb slipped firmly against the base of it. As if he’d like to measure how fast her heart drummed against him.

Sadja focused on the touch. Felt his thumb move and draw a memory from her mind— very recent. Very fresh. A lock on her wrist, harsh and wanting, and fingers wreathed together when neither felt inclined to give in.

She hummed and sighed and didn’t quite catch the words that kept rolling as her leg tried to find out if it could climb over his. “Ceat begged me not to. Tried to stop her.”

The thumb stopped moving. So did his chest, frozen where he’d been breathing out, with hefty alarm piled against her gates, and her guts twisted tight and sore.

After a little while, Redfield caught up with breathing. Continued the careful, circular motion of drawing her attention back to him. And then he went and cleaved her heart in two. Or three. Or four. Hacked it right up— _chop-chop-chop —_ no regard for her sanity, because at the end of the day, he was still an oaf, and oafs were horrid. Even the clever ones. _Especially_ the clever ones.

“What happened?” he asked. 

“He got it in his head that being free of the Ward wasn’t worth dying over, that I needed saving, though I’m not sure who from. Sinvik. Myself. The notion of a life away from him and the Ward.”

A steel drum fell against her chest, and the words kept scratching up her throat: “Thought he loved me. And probably did.”

Redfield’s breathing had slowed again. Had gotten real careful in how it went in and out.

“Two days after the bindings had come off he found her. Me. Us. He was furious. Desperate. And you’ve got to understand, he was a _good_ at what he did. Hunting down Sare who’d slipped the Ward, and bringing them back. But he’d never hurt any of them. Not once.”

Her voice broke with a promise of protest. Tarried. Sadja shifted, squished herself awkwardly atop an elevated surface made of a shoulder and a chest topped with a shadow of coarse hair. Redfield seemed to grow taller while horizontal.

How’d he do that?

“He was brilliant,” she eventually told the patient mountain. “And he was kind, so I _begged_ Sinvik to spare him. Or at least that’s what she’ll say, because I can’t rightfully remember much. Ceat—” She swallowed, because his name tasted of regret. Spoiled and rotten. “—he didn’t care. Just wanted her dead. And Vik thought she could sway him. Talk him out of it, since that’s what she’d promised to do, gets so close to it too. Until he’s got a Ranger to her head.”

“You don’t have to—” _say it,_ he murmured.  

“So I put a bullet into him. Pop. One moment he’s there and he’s alive. He’s the man who might have loved me, even if he didn’t have to. The next he’s none of those, and I’m one part me and one part _not._ All because Vik didn’t like to see me shackled, and I thought being free might be worth the trouble.”

Which it hadn’t been. Not really.

Sadja allowed herself a moment to listen to the beast rattle about in its cage, roused by how she’d let herself think of the moment that had begotten it. It rattled with restraint though, almost like it didn’t dare make too much noise.

Lest the whip ‘d crack... The one Redfield carried, all wreathed in fire and barbed with pointed warnings.

She propped herself up on her shoulder, craned her neck up to look at him. He’d turned to staring up there, a muddy blue inquiry and a very uncertain tilt to his lips. _Frown-smile-scowl-please-send-help-I-don’t-know-what-to-do_.

“Redfield?”

He blinked, thoughts thrown off a track somewhere, most like.

“Yeah?”

“Your pillow talk is awful.”

His brow knotted.

“I know,” he said, and the shoulder under her shifted, indicated he’d lain still long enough, had given her enough of whatever he’d had to offer— or taken what he’d come looking for— either or.

_Bollocks._

Maybe she ought to have told him Ceat had fallen down some stairs, lay the groundwork for a bed of pretty lies with petals of dirty secrets.

Or she could have just kept her mouth shut. That’d have worked too. Sighing, she dragged the blanket over her shoulders once he’d gotten up and invited in a patch of cold, and closed her eyes against the idea of disappointment stinging at them.

The music stopped.

The light got itself snuffed.

Partially, anyway.

Sadja cracked her eyes open, watched Redfield wandering the kitchen with nothing but a pair of _boxers_ slapped on. Boxers. She blinked. Silly name, what with her not having seen him box in them yet. He picked up the bottles of beer she’d put out there, having thought that’d be what he’d come looking for. Something to drown himself in. He tipped them into the sink. Watched them empty. Turned away to drop them into a bin.

Then he stood very still for a little while, his head turned to the counter where she’d left the papers he’d come with. His shoulders came up. Tense and ready to pounce. Or flee. Or both.

He did neither.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like broken Redfield. He makes me want to wrap my arms around him and shower him in kittens and puppies, because _man_ , disassociating sucks.
> 
> Of course I want him to feel better, but this isn't something he's coming back from gracefully, and certainly not in a span of a few days as Resident Evil 6 tried to make us believe, so here was a look into one day where things are somewhat manageable, but still very much grounded in the suck he's stuck in.
> 
> Update on edits: **"[The Girl of No-Man's-Land](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6702100/chapters/15328339)"** (chapter 2) received an extensive overhaul, giving Redfield a fresh introduction and Edonia a bit more character.


	34. Part 6: Down the Rabbit Hole, Coincidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which selective hearing gets Redfield into trouble, and Sadja is reminded that cheating death always comes at a price.

****Part 6: Down the Rabbit Hole** **

**COINCIDENCE**

* * *

**F** our-something-AM, and Chris had his head on the wrong way while he sat at her borrowed table. His mind longed for steady sleep, not the brief and irregular tatters of rest he’d found in her bed. Which had also come borrowed. The bed, anyway. Not her. She'd- she'd what?

“You’ve got to admit that I’ve gotten good at this, Redfield.”

“Very,” Chris told the plain white file in front of him, a finger riding its edge, and his eyes set on the familiar B.S.A.A logo printed at the front.

“Fantastic, even.”

“Yeah.” He folded it open. Photographs. Report sheets. Photographs tacked _to_ report sheets, and entirely too thin hope that any of it would be relevant. An exercise in futility, he thought, and thumbed through the meagre stack, reluctant to commit himself to any of them. Scanned through names, places.  Some familiar and painful. Most meaning nothing.

_Should have known better._

“You’d go as far as saying it’s the best you’ve ever had?”

He nodded. “Uh-huh—“

Surveillance logs. Freight manifests. _Bullshit._ And a tap at his shin from across the table, bare toes prodding at his jeans.

“Absolutely mind blowing,” Sadja said from the cover of her stapled fingers, eyes set on him when he looked up. Smiling eyes. _Judging_ eyes.

He glanced left. Right. Back to her, where he caught a brief curl of her lips, and thought he’d just stepped into a thick puddle of muck made of terrible mistakes and selective hearing. Mostly the latter.

“Uh— What?”

“The coffee—“ Her eyes cut to the cup by his papers. “—I make amazing coffee.”

 _You_ are _—_  he started thinking, then quickly discarded whatever might have come next, because he’d still not quite figured out if she could read his mind or not. Or what this was.  _This._ Him. Her. Them.

“It’s alright. I’ve had worse.”

She jabbed at him with her foot. Clicked her tongue. Leaned forward and swiped the folder from his hands, turning it towards her and leaning over it with her elbows propped up on the table around it.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’ve got the manners of a fat mule?”

“Don’t you ever get tired?”

“On occasion,” she said, her head tilting this way and that, and Chris watched her flick through what hope he had left to his name. She’d thrown on a thick sweater, carried the hood bunched up around her neck, and kept her hands halfway tucked into its cuffs. Her hair was a mess.

He remembered why. Liked that he did. Most of all he liked the _why_ to it, and how she hung in the air around him still. Clung to him. All smokey spices, a taste of wild undoing— and fingers for claws or claws for fingers. Chris rolled his right shoulder ( _Yeah, claws.)_ , and went for the _so-so_ coffee lacking the caffeine punch to knock his mind back into the game.

Which was fine. Really. He’d just drink more of it. The whole damn flagon if he had to. Bottoms up, no fuzz. Get that old, creaky heart back up to speed which beat a sluggish, tired rhythm, quite clearly done with him.

He looked on, watched her eyes roam the pages, her fingers twitching and tapping, and thought of earlier.

 _”Where are you,”_ she’d asked while he’d been busy disassociating. A detail he intended to keep between the two of them, far away from scrutinizing glances, pens and notepads and _How have you been feeling today, Mister Redfield?_

Much like he kept the _Angry_ out of the discussions with his shrink and replaced them with _Better_. Or how he didn’t touch on how he couldn’t sleep, or how his head felt ready to detach from his shoulders and bob off into the other direction.  How loud noises stuffed his throat and lungs with ice.

And that his right knee had been fucking him over the last few mornings and his spine had wanted out, every inch of him hyper aware of how far he’d fallen off the ladder. Chris blinked, a lazy flutter of his lids flirting with the idea of staying shut and thumping his head on the table, and wondered: _Now though?_

Tired. Sure. But when he sat up straight he couldn’t count his vertebra any more, or map out grouchy muscles just by zeroing in on a pinch. It all felt a little bit better. Without the lies and the pretend. Just better.

_Maybe there’s hope for you yet, Redfield._

The thought came and went, caught on Sadja’s posture stiffening. Subtly, at first. A bob of her throat, the tendons of her neck stretching— and then she almost upended the table. It bounced under him, rattled loudly, and jolted his arm. Spilled coffee down his chin.

“Jesus. You alright?”

She let out an aggravated grunt, one hand diving under the table to rub at her knees, the other flat on the papers.

“Where did you get this?” Her voice sounded rushed. Hitched and tripped from her mouth as if she’d run out of breath.

“The papers?”

“This,” she said, rotated her wrist, and turned the folder back to face him. “The picture. The _photograph_.”

She spelled it with the _o_ sa little too thick, and the _t_ too sharp, and if she hadn’t locked her eyes on him as if she’d try to go in for a bite, Chris thought he might have found it sweet. Instead he felt a tug of alarm pulling his heart down and his gut a little tighter.

“If you’re messing about here then you better tell me, Redfield. Because this isn’t funny. I’m not laughing. You’re not seeing me laugh.”

“What? No, I—“

“Look.” She jammed a finger at a black and white image. Four civilians. Three men, one woman, and nothing useful on them in the small print below.

“The one right here? The pinchy sort of face? That’s Augustus vil Marrk.”

Chris’ brows drew together as he tried to herd together his flakey memory. He’d heard that name before. No. He’d _read_ it, back when he’d snooped through her diary while she’d swayed her hips and rattled his guilt.

“Ceat’s father. What’s he doing here?” She stared at him as if he knew the answer, eyes wide, mouth parted slightly, and a nervous tongue pressed against her teeth until it flicked nervously across her lip.

Panicking.

“He _can’t_ be here.”

“Are you absolutely sure?” His eyes cut to the date stamped on the paper.

“Mh. I can’t not be. There’s nothing won’t make me recognise him.” Her fingers curled on the paper and she fidgeted, a silent hiccup that dragged her shoulders together and made her shrink into the sweater.

“Sadja—“ He grabbed for her hand, because that felt like the right thing to do. Squeezed it (because that had to come next), felt it clammy and cold against his palm, her knuckles prodding at his fingers.

“—this was snapped last year. September. That’s four months before you got here.”

She wheezed. Recoiled from his touch and sat down hard enough to make the chair rap against the floor, before surging to her feet with an unsteady sway.

“This _can’t_ be,” she croaked and paced away from the table, her hands folding against her face, then her neck, scratching and grabbing, nails digging at her skin.

And all the while she muttered, spat words he didn’t understand, the language alien and disjointed. Fitting her all too well. Chris frowned, contemplated following her.

“Elaya be bloody damned,” she told the ceiling. Back to English. “This has got to be a joke, because if he’s here, then that’s why _I’m_ here, and I’m not okay with that.”

_Should help. Should definately help._

He got up. Made it two strides far, and she whirled around, hands back to her mouth and a hurried, “Oh— _Oh_ — I’m going to be sick,” squeezed through her fingers.

She bolted through the apartment, vanished into the bathroom, and slammed the door behind her with a resounding crack.

* * *

 **D** awn broke around her, grey on grey, and Sadja felt _cold._ A simple, primal thing for a sensation that froze her to the rumbling seat and had her fidget on the spot, her legs bouncing and eyes flicking from left to right.

“Walk me through it again,” the craggy Furnace said while he drove them ever closer to his garrison— or pen— or office. A place she’d rightfully not expected to return to anytime soon, because just why should she? He’d not wanted her help. Not needed it. Not _asked_ for it, anyway, and she hadn’t felt quite willing to press.

Because even though she’d thought he’d been the one she’d been sent to look after, she’d not quite bought into it. And she’d been wrong anyway. So wrong.

She tucked her shoulders up, got her lips between her teeth, and hesitated for all the wrong reasons, before muttering: “Have you gone deaf?”

The beast, having gotten itself excited by all the commotion of the past hour, rumbled bravely from the cover of its cage, happily agreeing with a bit of a barb aimed at him.

“No, but I don’t speak _freak-out._ ”

He sighed, and she didn’t need to turn his way to know he’d started throwing her sideways glances. All business, no play. There’d been a lot of that since she’d come out of the bathroom in search for something to wash the sick from her mouth. Vigilant and attentive he’d been, hovering about her like she might flake out and leave him to his own devices. Very confused devices, those were.

“And you stop vibrating while you talk,” he added. “So go. Talk.”

And inexpressibly worried devices.

Sadja wished she’d had the nerve for a smile. Give him something that wasn’t a curt sniff at the air. But her mind was off at the races outrunning itself, head to head on all manners of disasters: The Gated City aflame, overrun by monsters that had been men once. Sare turned to grotesque creatures built for destruction, made in the image of what vil Marrk had always seen them to be.

Trero. Broken.

She swallowed, wrapped her hands around her knees, and repeated herself. Slower this time. Starting from the top, just in case he’d forgotten.

“Keepers don’t get to pick and chose their duty. There’s no one handing us a map when we get called. No one pointing out what we’ve got to fix. We get a nudge and a wave, and then it’s all on us to make sense of the rest.”

Sinvik had, at one point or the other, said things might have been different once. Back in the _when_ of Keepers coming in flocks of seven— never four and never five— and certainly never divided into three. Two of the Shielding kind, one of the _I’d rather tear the world down because ma’ didn’t love me_ sort.

“And I thought this, me being here, was all _me._ An exile of sorts, or the Cataract’s favour after Sinvik had asked so nice.”

 _Or you,_ which she didn’t say, because he’d look at her funny, crinkle his brow and go _What?_

Not like it mattered any more, what with the threat of Augustus having himself a field day in a world filled to the brim by wonders that could buckle Trero within a turn.

“But if vil Marrk is here, and has been for as long as you claim, then it’s him the Cataract sent me for, not the other way around, and that _vexes_ me.”

A shiver crept up her spine. Her markings thrummed. By the band of her jeans, the echo of a sharp, jagged pain flared, and she clicked her teeth shut as she felt iron run her through, hot and cold and an end to what she might have become.

“Ansel and Torrian must have worked for him. Or with him. That frightens me.”

“Why?” The metal beastie slowed. Swung right and down, leaving a drab morning behind as it slunk into the hollow beneath the B.S.A.A garrison.

“They belonged to the Nightingale, and she’s— she’s scary. Vil Marrk and her together is a recipe for all manners of bad things.”

“How scary?”

The beastie found itself a spot to rest.

“Snip-her-fingers-flay-your-soul, and snap-your-neck-with-a-sneeze-scary.”

Now she did look at him, at his upturned brow and the scepticism in it.

“I’m not exaggerating.”

“Okay,” he said, and maybe he believed her too. Either way, he yanked the key from the beastie, gave her a curt little nod, and left her clinging to a spell of silence.

A little while later, their footfalls echoed hard through the underbelly of his garrison, almost intrusive. She counted her steps as she stuck to his right, a quick succession of _One-and-two-then-three-and-four_ with a short break in the rhythm as he dropped a hand by the small of her back, a whisper for a touch herding her into the elevator.

Sadja looked up, caught his tense jawline and the missed trim to the shadow clinging to his cheeks, and wondered if she could ever make him truly understand. Eventually, after her thoughts kept knocking her words askew, the elevator _DINGED_ to a halt.

“Might be a coincidence,” he said, meaning well, but being so woefully wrong.

“There’s no such thing.”

Redfield grunted. Shepherded her out, the hand at her back having gotten comfortable where he’d put it.

“There’s a touch of reason to everything, a nudge for every tumble. An ebb and flow of wicked things washing at the bedrock of every world. And sometimes it leaves behind bits and pieces, flotsam and jetsam getting lodged in sideways and turning over what’s meant to be.”

Another grunt, this one a little more quiet, matching the early morning hush in the halls. He led her with clear direction, past a handful of tired (but no less curious) faces, and tucked her a little closer when they turned to look at her.

The motion came with a heartbeat of wishing they’d stayed in that bloody bed. Had never gotten up. Or that she’d kept her grabby fingers off those papers he’d brought with him when he’d shown up in pieces.

The beast kicked. Snarled. _Reminded_ her.

Coincidences. No such thing. He stood living proof to it— or walked, on and on, with her snug to his side —and she admitted to a tickle of spite. How dare he bring this to her?

“Vil Marrk isn’t here because he has— has—“ Sadja chewed on the inside of her mouth, tried to remember the right words for it. _His_ kind of words, not hers. “—the thing with the cat. The grinning cat. and the caterpillar, and that girl in the blue dress.“

Redfield’s hand squeezed lightly, and his voice carried the tilt of a smile when he said: “Fallen down the wrong rabbit hole?”

“Mh. That. He’s not here because of that. He’s here for a reason. He’s vengeance tucked in a neat coat. Ruthless. Driven. And he likes to think himself a visionary, a man that thinks of grander things. He’s got no single man or woman to best. He’s got a _world_ he wants to see brought to heel, a whole kin to fall at his whim.”

She shivered.

“And if he gets his hands on your secrets, he’ll have all of that. He’ll burn my home. And then he’ll burn the rest.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit between here and some of the upcoming chapters, Redfield might take Sadja out for a bit of target practice. Here's a bit of complimentary reading with [Mossberg](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6954565), Sadja's first encounter of the shotgun type.


	35. Just Chris

**JUST CHRIS**

* * *

**H** e’d guided her through the place— jabbed a finger at a chair at one point, and she’d sat herself down, eyes flitting between him and his world as it had come awake around them. A hush-hush sort of world still, not wanting much to do with her when she let herself stroll about with Elaya’s hem gently fluttering in the absolute lack of a breeze.

“Stay,” he’d said and wandered off. When he'd returned, he'd found her pacing with her hands in her pockets and her shoulders up. Tense. Reeling. Soul and mind and body all screaming, wanting her to do something more than dragging her feet on the floor. Anything. Redfield had looked at her. Grunted or huffed or sighed, and then walked right up to grab her by the neck and push her into a chair. 

“ _Sit._ ”

She’d done as told, let her knees bounce and her heart drum, and _waited._  

Next time around, he’d brought a cup. Warm and steaming, and smelling terribly sweet. She’d looked up at him, caught him peering back at her with a careful sort of intensity, and accepted the brew with a question in trade: “What’s it you call this garrisons then?”

“Garrison?”

“Mh.” She’d sipped on the cup. Hot. Very hot. Not coffee though, but that _chocolate_ thing that made her nose itch. Creamy. Nice— and then she’d sneezed.

“ _Office,_ ” he’d said in-between her _hachu-hachu-HACHU!_ and put on that tone that indicated she’d gotten something wrong. “It’s called an office.” A look around, and he’d added: “The headquarters to the North American B.S.A.A branch.”

“So you’ve got soldiers stationed here. People like you.”

Up and down his chin had gone, a quiet nod of a heavy head she thought would have liked a pillow, but wasn’t about to get one any time soon.

“Garrison then— now come have a seat, you look like you’re about to keel over.”

He’d sat. Had stared at her, but right then Sadja had doubted it had been _her_ he’d been seeing. Instead he’d focused on whatever asset she't turned herself into when she'd told him about Vil Marrk.

His hope.

Her misery.

Whichever.

Now, still sitting where he’d put her, the _office_ had come abuzz with activity. People roamed the halls, filed into rooms. Filed right back out. They carried papers. Carried boxes. Carried tension with them, tangible and sour, still as frantic as the first time she’d been here. The hubbub wasn’t helping her own unease, and Sadja wished herself less of a scatterbrain, since then she might not have forgotten her _barr_ sitting neatly folded on a dresser.

_Bloody well done, you moron._

So Sadja hid behind her gates, until a particular knock at them made her look to the hall where she found Nivans standing with his hands tightly clutched by his sides.

“Captain?” His eyes flicked to Redfield, then back to her, and he didn’t even bother trying to hide how outright unhappy her presence made him.

 _Come on now,_ she whined at him in silence while Redfield got to his feet, an unsteady smile on his lips that struggled with the idea of sticking on. It was gentle though, and she figured it to be true. Just real tired.

“Morning, Piers. You up for a chat with the Chief when he comes in?”

“Sure, but what’s she doing here?”

Redfield glanced at her.

“She’s here to help.”

* * *

 _Help_ wasn’t about to be accepted easily. It had itself stared at from across a table, the stuffy room around her crouching in with panelled walls and the same pane of glass she’d watched Redfield through a few days ago.

Sadja didn’t need to say much, but she listened, and she _helped_ while he talked.

Not an easy task, that, what with Nivans yapping and tearing at Elaya’s hem with the most stubborn of mistrusts, and their Chief presenting himself with barely a whisper in front of her. While the man looked hardy enough on the outside, weathered by years and then pressed into a neat, ironed uniform, he carried little weight within the Verge. She feared if she’d sneezed a little too hard she might knock him right over. Figuratively, of course.

A Cad’his couldn’t change a man’s opinion, and certainly couldn’t huff and puff at a soul and blow it adrift. Not really, anyway, or at least not the one sitting here, with her hands folded and squeezed between her thighs. And adding fuel to the suspicion that sat between them sounded like a horribly mad idea, since she guessed that way lay more shackles and another locked room. So she listened to Redfield’s reasoning as he tapped his fingers on the photographs he’d brought, and the one’s he’d dug up while they’d waited for his Chief to arrive, and she made herself small. Reduced herself to something tiny and insignificant, with her throat bared to the quiet hem, and a suggestion of _I’m harmless._

Nivans didn’t fall for it, but he didn’t argue against his Captain. Loyal to a fault, that one. Which was cute. And that wasn’t even a lie.

Their Chief though, he bought it all right up. Maybe a little too well. By the time Redfield finished presenting evidence that there was something worth sniffing at, he’d literally forgotten she sat across of him.

Embarrassing, really, since she’d been part of the plan. Part of the why. The _”She recognised him, and if we had eyes on them before, then what are the chances this is a coincidence? It isn’t. It can’t be. We have to look into that location. Fuck, we might already be too late.”_ Or something or the other, he’d talked a little fast then and she might have not caught all of it.

It took a bit of convincing, but their Chief eventually nodded. Clapped a hand flat on the table, said: “You have permission to proceed. Get a team together—“ and when they all got to their feet he blinked at her and looked mighty confused.

Redfield caught on, got a hand up to settle it around her neck, and gave it a little squeeze. A _thankful_ squeeze, if she was to read it right, and when he asked “Another perk?” she _Mh’d_ and that was that.

* * *

 **C** hris didn’t pretend to understand her. Didn’t try and fool himself by saying it all made perfect sense. That _she_ made sense. Or that what she claimed was true, that there was more to how the world worked than what he’d gotten comfortable with. _Relatively_ comfortable with.

No.

Chris didn’t even bother trying. He didn’t need to. All he needed was that thin thread of hope she’d handed him. Reluctantly. By accident. A coincidence that would take them back across the Atlantic and south into Italy, where the B.S.A.A had dismissed a lead months ago because it hadn’t ticked enough boxes to be worth investigating. It was now, and he felt alive with the knowledge of it, felt something familiar drag on him after he’d been given permission to assemble a team and commission transport.

All of which took _time,_ because you couldn’t just snap your fingers and have troops at the ready, weapons cleared, and a bird in the air that got them all where he needed them to be. That, and there was the matter of his curious burden, and her absolute failing with conventional firearms.

She missed again.

Not by much, mind you. By a fucking mile. Chris winced and glanced down at her, at how she squinted along the sights of the M4, her fingers flexing around the handguard.  

Her focus was downrange, her posture poor, and her hair a mess under the ear muffs. And all of her was out of place. She didn’t fit here, didn’t blend into the rest of them no matter his efforts today. And damn had he tried.

First, he’d found her a somewhat fitting shirt, and she’d shrugged it over her T and tapped a finger against the B.S.A.A logo stitched on a shoulder. Then he’d kept her around while Piers had helped him pick a team from a set of dossiers, hoping they’d— talk? A little anyway? A _Hi, how are you? Sorry I’d have shot you if I’d known what I was doing?_ Chris had practically felt the air chill around him as he’d sat between them, collecting a list of names. Some familiar, some less— each dragging at his gut with a hint of unease.

More soldiers to follow where he went.

More men to lead to their death.

Come midday, he’d lost an appetite he’d not even noticed he’d been trying to dodge. But he’d gotten a roster and his out-of-place _plus one,_ who’d looked at him patiently while he’d stacked papers, ground his teeth together, and waited for his stomach to settle.

After a quick lunch at a burger joint ten minutes from the office (during which Piers had asked Sadja to _Pass the salt please?_ and she’d done so without trying to kill him), they’d sorted what was left to be sorted on her advisory status.

Which, as it turned out, came with an evaluation, a row of inquiries to fill that guaranteed she wasn’t going to be a liability in the field.

Box number one and two had been physical fitness, and rudimentary self defence.

Doable.

Box number three? Firearms proficiency.

Not so doable.

Around them, the indoor range had cleared out, with Piers having reluctantly bailed about thirty minutes ago. Right about when they’d cycled back to the carbine after she’d shown herself moderately _okay_ with a Beretta.

The type of okay that left him wondering if maybe he should have just pushed a shotgun into her hands, blindfolded her, and told her to go nuts. He figured she’d hit more that way. And that he'd have probably enjoyed the blindfolding a little too much to be entirely appropriate.

“It kicks,” she complained, her voice dulled by his earmuffs. “Why have you got things that kick so hard, and why are you making me do this again?”

“Because you—“ He grabbed her shoulder, pressed a hand against the small of her back, and adjusted her posture before he looked past her down the range, once from her left, then her right. Yeah, she’d barely clipped the target. Damn. “—want to come with me.”

Sadja clicked her tongue. “Incorrect. You’re in this to torture me, a punishment of sorts because you can’t stand it that I’ve beat you on your mat.”

She had. And he liked remembering the finer details of it, how she’d followed him to the ground unnecessarily, with her knees snapped tight around his hip, and a bit of a hard locked sway that he’d almost regretted.

“You cheat.”

“Nh—“ Sadja’s head tilted slightly. “It’s not my fault you’re about as subtle as an ox.”

“I can be subtle,” he said and found her neck with the tips of gloved fingers, sliding past the collar of her shirt in search of her twisting markings.

“Your idea of _subtle_ baffles me, Redfield.”

“Chris.”

She turned her chin up. Let her tongue dart from between her lips. Stared at him from under a pair of clear protective glasses he’d had to convince her to put on. _”I’m not_ that _shoddy,”_ she’d said when he’d perched them on her twitching nose, and then promptly proceeded to be just that.

“Just Chris,” he repeated.

She huffed, shook her head, and went back to the rifle, shifted her weight until she almost looked like she knew what she was doing, and let it rock against her shoulder with four quick taps.

Three hits and one graze.

Getting _better,_ but still not quite.

Frustrated, Sadja rolled her neck, bumped the muffs off one ear, and rubbed her shoulder against it, the motion swinging the rifle towards him. Chris caught it against his hand, directed it down range, and plucked the muffs from her head.

“Can we be done?” Her eyes went back to him. “I’m not going to be getting any better at this today.”

“No, you’re not. Unload and we can head home.”

He discarded his own gear, tossed the glasses and muffs aside, and chanced a look at his timepiece. Twenty to eleven. Another long day done. Not wasted though. Not at all.

“Home, mh?” A shoulder rubbed against his arm, pulled his attention away from seconds ticking away on his wrist.

“Yeah.”

“And where’s that?”

_Huh._

He looked at her, watched her drop the magazine and eject the last chambered round. _CLICK-CLACK-SNAP_ , quick and without much fuzz. Least she’d gotten that down. The loading, the unloading. And the not shooting him by accident.

Progress.

“I’ve got dinner leftovers from yesterday,” he told her, and her brow rocked up.

“Are you trying to seduce me?”

Chris shrugged. “I don’t know. Is it working?”

“Mh, it must be,” she hummed, pushed the rifle at his chest. Cocked her head left, and kicked at his heart with a simple: “Take me home then.

 _"Redfield_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for that. A quick and dirty chapter to set myself up for the meaty parts of the story. We're ready for the home stretch!
> 
> To the people reading this: I am holding back on the saucy bits and the teasing between those two, letting it happen mostly off screen. Would you rather have it shifted into the focus?


	36. The Fool's Armour

**The Fool’s Armour**

* * *

❛ **Day 88** ❜ looked like a proper mess.

Cobbled together from yesterdays, and snatches of a barely risen today, it skipped through time with about as much grace as a newborn filly might navigate its pasture. Not overly well.

It made her dizzy. Turned her eyes hot in their sockets, a sting to them she couldn’t squeeze out no matter how vigorously she rubbed at them with her thumbs.

_Will you just get it together?_

Sadja snapped her eyes forward, peered at a slice of reluctant light running down the middle of a set of listless curtains, and wished herself bored.

Hard to think a few days ago she’d have liked to be anything but. Now she’d give a hefty chunk of herself for a lasting lull.

_Bollocks._

With a sigh, she turned back to her journal. Looked down at words she’d hoped would tear a little of the pressure from her chest. 

> ❛ _I’ve done this before._
> 
> _Once._
> 
> _I’ve gone off and dragged home a wayward Sare. He’d tripped through a rend in the Verge, one left behind by some calamity or the other back when even the Nightingale had been no more than a vague idea in someone’s loins._
> 
> This’ll be easy _, Vik had said then, and she’d sent me off with a pat on my shoulder and a_ Good Luck _that lasted about a day._
> 
> _The Sare hadn’t been pleased._
> 
> _He’d liked what he’d found. Had gotten cozy. Had thought that he’d gone and done what we all wanted: Found a life worth the effort._ ❜

Sadja let the pen hover. Contemplated leaving it at that, since the words that pushed at her from the inside weren’t about to taste nice on the way out.

> ❛ _Back then I didn’t quite get it._
> 
> _I saw only a world that was a little too high up, what with the clouds below my feet. And I thought it stank an awful lot, the air dirty and full of airships coughing up thick clouds of oily smoke._
> 
> _Not once did I pause to consider how things worked different here, even if they didn’t work_ perfect.
> 
> _He pleaded when I found him. Swore to Elaya’s ever gentle heart that he’d behave from here on out, and you’d think I’d have recognised the words. The_ I’ll be good! I swear, I swear— I didn’t mean to overstep— _while you’ve got a Ward Knight turning a hot iron in their hand, ready to turn the world black._
> 
> _But he’d made a mess. Muddied up things and made himself mean more to this world than he’d ever had any right to. And this the Cataract couldn’t tolerate. Neither would its Keepers. Fledgling or not._
> 
> _So I brought him home._
> 
> _“Awfully well done,” Sinvik had said when I’d returned to her, and I’d been a little proud._ ❜

The page ran out, and her heart did too. A little, anyway. Sadja scowled at the words, as if that’d show them for how they twisted her throat up tight. They cared none for her defiance, or for her defeat. Flipping the page, and giving her nose a scrub with the back of her hand, she went back to dragging the past and present from the tip of the pen.

> ❛ _I’d done_ ** _good._** _A tainted sort of good, but right then I hadn’t cared a lick for that. Eager to please was what I’d been, and I wanted to do it all again._
> 
> _Well. Shit._
> 
> _Here’s my chance. Years later— and I’m thinking_ **Not like this**. _Please._ ❜

Tight lipped. A strained huff out her nose. Knuckles white where she held the pen. _Not bloody fair._  

> ❛ _There’s a weight to what I’m faced with. A finality to my failure that extends beyond what I’m allowed to give. My life, now that’s mine to lord over, despite what some might think. Losing that is on me and me alone, but if I don’t get_ this _right?_
> 
> _So please please please. Let me look away. Let me turn my back and walk, because I’m not made of bits hard enough to weather this. Sinvik is. Her and those she’s gathered around her. Heroes. Men and women who’ve carried Trero’s unsteady weight on their shoulders without fail, and who I can’t ever see buckle under it._
> 
> _Them._
> 
> _Not me._
> 
> _I’m not a hero._
> 
> _Don’t wa_ ❜

“—I’ll have to buy you a new one.”

Sadja lifted the pen, and a quizzical look fell to Redfield hovering by the mouth of his kitchen.

He looked about as ready for a day of things important as he possibly could, all business and a definite lack of play. Halfway to rested too, she thought, his eyes alert and the lines that had started gathering around them a little less _liny._

“Hm?”

His head gave a brief nod to her journal.

“Ah—“ Sadja ran a finger up the side of it and flipped through the last four empty pages. Idle fingers had filled the thing right quick.

“I need money,” she said after a moment of staring at blank paper, wishing a little that her mind could be as vacant and unwritten. Not a mess of scribbles lining the insides of her head.

Redfield made a noise in response that got her to look up. He’d wandered closer, joined her at his kitchen counter to sit by her side.

“One thing at a time,” he said.

Her grip on the pen tightened. She breathed out, tried to evict the pressure from her lungs squeezing in from around her spine. Failed at that. Terribly too, and he picked up on it.

“You alright?”

Concern lapped against her gates. It had a muted heat to it. Careful and almost tender, and she toyed with the thought of letting it in. Instead, she let the pages fall back down and blinked at the drying ink.

“You don’t look it.” An arm dove past her. Returned with a carafe still halfway full of coffee.

She shrugged and listened to him pour some into his mug.

“I’ve got things to live up to,” she admitted after a while and he allowed her a distracted _Huhm_ that tapered off with his first sip. “And I’m not altogether sure I can.”

“If you’re worried about the assessment— don’t. You’re doing fine, and it’s mostly bull anyway.”

“No— yes. I—“ she winced.

“You’re _really_ not okay.” The mug clicked against the counter and he shifted by her side. Turned to face her, she figured.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t _word_ right.”

_Now that’s just uncalled for._

“I _word_ just fine,” she said and snapped her eyes to him. Caught him reading.

“Oy! Isn’t a girl allowed any privacy around you?”

Redfield shrugged at that, a lovely nod of his shoulders that she rather liked, at least until he looked at her. His brow was pinched and something weighty set in the muddy blue stare.

“We don’t even know if he’s still here,” he tried. “He might be gone by now.”

 _And that’d make it worse, because then I’ll have been late,_ she snapped, but out loud said: “It hasn’t been that long since Ansel. He’s _here_ , or else I wouldn’t be.”

“Okay. But you’re not doing this on your own. If he’s only half as much trouble as you said, then he’s as much our problem as he’s yours. Worse, if he’s mixed up with Neo Umbrella. Which—“ He picked up his mug. Took a sip. “—makes him the B.S.A.A’s responsibly. My responsibility.”

Her heart pinched.

“I’m not going to tell you not to worry. That’s pointless, we both know that, but this is good. This is a _start._ And after that—“ Another pause, and he spent it tracking an unsteady line along her, mapped her out with eyes that seemed to carry their own words with them.

“I can help you get set up. Doesn’t— doesn’t have to be _here_ of course. Can be anywhere. Hell, I’m okay with that road trip down the coast.”

An ugly slice of dashed _want_ filled her up. Drowned her.

She remembered. The empty suggestion of: _“Once this is done I could rob us another thieves den. We could buy another red beastie, and you could drive me up and down the North America.”_

That lie that neither of them had bought. That both of them had needed.

The truth was no-where near as much fun, what with the _You can’t stay,_ the beast had reminded her of. But she’d shouldered it aside, thought herself in no rush to consider what tomorrow would bring. Because why waste time and effort and dwell on things that weren’t stood right in front of her?

 _Ignorance is the fool’s tattered armour,_ Sinvik had told her once. An echo of wisdom passed on from the Keeper's Da, a man Sadja often wished she could have met. It was an armour only good as long as you kept your blinkers shut and your ears stuffed.

Blindfolded. Unhearing. Feet rooted to the ground, because _forward_ hadn’t appealed to her. And now, with the armour shattered, she stood in front of a clear track laid in front of her. One leading her places. Leading her away from red metal beasties and grouchy furnaces with a terrible thirst.

She frowned and said Furnace's brow furrowed.

“What?”

“I’m not staying, Redfield. I can’t. Once this is done, _if_ this gets done, I’ll be called home. And that’s a call I can’t not answer.”

He looked on. Quiet. Contemplating her words with a bit of a downward roll of his shoulders.

“So you can go home?” The shoulders came up again. His elbow propped up on the counter. “You can like— go back right now? If you’d wanted to, I mean. Could you just head home, warn your friends?” He hesitated. “Bring help?”

_Unbelievable. Always so bloody professional. What’s the world given you that all you’ve got on your mind is saving it?_

“No. I’ve got no choice in that. The Cataract is the one deciding where I go and _when_ I go. It has got a hold on Keepers that we can’t ignore, a pull of sorts that gets your blood singing in your veins and your bones rattling. I’ve only felt it once, and then only briefly.”

She twitched with the distant memory of a shrill thrum seated deep within her, like the chime of a bell struck at her core and reverberating outwards. Over and over and over again…

“So how did Marrk get here?”

It was question time then? _Fine._

 _"Vil_ Marrk. It’s a salutation declaring nobility. You’ve got those here too, no?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“I’m _educating._ ”

“How’d he get here?”

Chisel and hammer had come out, ready to dig at her with an aggressive sort of curiously.

Sadja shrugged. “Most like it’s the Nightingale who’s helped him. She doesn’t bother with the finer details of rules on how things are meant to work. If she sees something she likes she’ll go get it, and she’ll crack the Cataract open for it any time she pleases to. What I can’t fathom is why she’d align herself with Vil Marrk.”

Aggravated by her own words, Sadja snapped the journal shut and went for his mug. He didn’t protest.

“They’re _different_ shades of trouble. He wants to reshape the Ward, eradicate the Sare, and rid Trero of it’s Reapers. And kill me. Not particularly in that order. And Gale, she just _wants._ She’s fickle and she’s insane, there’s no telling what she’s got on her mind this time.”

She scoffed and tried for a smile, hoping it’d take the edge off the itch of desperation.

“Sinvik said she once wanted to steal Hell. Whisk it from the skies. Which’d be bloody hilarious, if she hadn’t been serious about it and almost broke it. That’d end a bit like if your moon got plucked away. Not well.”

Redfield watched on and she liked to think the gears in his head were turning furiously, bits of her stuck in their teeth. Bits of crazy.

“It’s up to us then,” he said, not overtly fazed by the thought of someone trying to nick his moon. _Just thinking you’re making it up, most like._

Sadja nodded to that. “And not up to me if I stay or go.”

 _Wha-whump_ her heart said to that, and she could have sworn she heard the Beast mewl with a hint of regret.

“Okay.”

That’s what he said, at any rate. A simple word without any implication attached to it. An acknowledgement to things that were outside of his control, much as they were outside of hers. But out past her gates things looked a little less _Okay,_ and when she took a gander over them, letting herself get stepped on by the weight of him, the Furnace bled defeated heat. It was a weary resignation to what lay ahead of them: Vil Marrk, Ada Wong, and a world with a stubborn tendency to wish him hurt.

And then he went and surprised her. Again.

“Okay,” he repeated and tapped at her journal. The tired discord faded. What remained was a warm hush, gentle in every way, and altogether too tempting. She scurried back behind her gates, pulling them shut behind her.

“Wrote anything about me?”

A slow breath caught in her throat. Stayed there. Grew a little stale before she breathed it out. Her lips quirked.

“Mh. About your passing out the moment your ass hit the bed every night. Trousers still on and all.”

“Unlike you, _I_ get tired.” He scoffed and smiled, even if it looked a little frayed. Then he reached for the cup she’d started clinging to, coaxed her fingers off it, and downed what she’d left in there with a tilt of his head.

“Come on. Get dressed, I’ll have you cleared today.”

“Oh, you’re optimistic.”

“Persuasive.”

Sadja clicked her tongue. “Ah-right then, Redfield. Dazzle me with how you’ll convince your people that I’m a harmless kitten, and am to be trusted with your deadly playthings.”

And there wasn’t about to be much more to it.

Nothing left to say as she hopped off the high chair. Nothing but tomorrow ahead of her, and a track that’d lead her away from him, the fool’s armour clinging to her shoulders.

 


	37. Down.

**Down.**

* * *

  **T** he flying box jostled. Not just once, no. That would have been too bloody convenient. It wobbled and it rattled, a hollow sound of the frame around her getting itself shook up hard, and Sadja was all manners of not okay with it.

They’d die. Right here. Right now.  _Goodbye cruel world, I wasn't convinced you were worth it anyway._

Her fingers curled into the folds on her trousers. Her throat clicked. Then the fat bellied, flying beastie sort of tilted forward, even if the metal by her feet looked perfectly straight. And perfectly _thin,_ she figured. Too thin, and she wondered if it’d peel off. Tumble away into the clouds, and leave her with a good long look at the sky, and then a great deal of falling.

Lots and lots and lots of falling. Ending in a _SPLAT_ of a fledgling Keeper meeting the stubborn ground. 

She drew in a sharp breath. Tucked her chin against her chest, and stared past her knees. _Rattle—rattle—rattle_ the thing kept going, until her stomach got yanked down hard, followed soon after by a hard smack of the flying beastie hitting the ground.

It stuttered and it creaked, and it wobbled something fierce, but it didn’t come apart at the seams or go up in flames.

Good.

“You look a bit pale.”

Sadja looked up. Across of her, dressed in heavy greens and grey, a man smiled at her. Marco was his name. Marco Rose, and he was the genuine sort. A  _fan_ , he'd said when she'd met him first. Of her and her photography skills, and that had tickled her. This though, this flying today? That didn't tickle her at all. Not in any way she'd have liked.

“This wasn’t fun,” she admitted, and his smile grew a little wider.

“Used to riding coach?”

She blinked, thought of horses pulling said coach, and figured that wasn’t what he meant. Her eyes cut left, to Redfield looking her way. _Help,_ she asked with a flick of her brows into the general direction of up, and the Furnace gave the faintest of nods.

“Mh… coach. That’s what I usually ride. Coach. Much more— comfortable?”

Redfield’s lips twitched. _Good girl,_ they said. A quiet sort of approval that looked out of place on him. Timid. Tindy. Dwarfed by the hard edges on his face, and lost in the weight of his gear.

Much like Marco (and everyone else), he’d dressed himself ready for war. It wasn’t the same set he’d sported back in Edonia, since that had come with padding to get him through the cold. This one was altogether different. Lighter. A vest of sorts sat draped over his torso, and below it he wore a tightly fitting piece in dark greens reaching halfway down his arms. When he’d put the thing on the first time, Sadja had thought it looked a bit like he’d grown scales. Very fine scales made of Elaya knew what, and Sadja had gone and poked at it, frowning. It felt smooth. A little slick. And then he’d slapped her hand away because she’d started tugging on it.

The vest looked heavy in comparison. Sturdier too, and it came lined with pouches.

They’d stuffed her into gear too, though hers was a little different. A simple, but thick cotton shirt in black, trousers that weighed heavy hanging from a thick belt clamped around her midriff, and a vest of her own.

Sadja hated that vest. It stuck to her. Crowded her. Much like the belt keeping her tied to the beastie's arched wall behind her, and she went and tugged at that. Were they about done yet? Was it time to go? Time to do something else than _sit?_ She wished she could slip from the seat, and slip from the vest too, give her lungs some room to move. 

_Ack.._

Sadja fidgeted. Gave the _barr_ on her neck a lift, tried to let some air in, and missed her _jeans_ and _t-shirt._ Horribly so.

A little later, the _airplane_ quieted. It rolled on smoothly, and Sadja shifted on the hard seat she’d had to keep her ass planted on for entirely too long. Her legs felt heavy. Her feet cold. The air smelled funny, though at least it had stopped being so damn thin and stale, and had almost gotten a bit of spice to it again.

But none of that changed how very little she’d enjoyed this particular trip across the skies, no matter how much she’d liked the last few. This one hadn’t been _fun._

She threw a miserably look at Redfield, who’d turned the other way and started talking into his ear-mouth thing. _Microphone._ That’s what this was called. A microphone, and he was acknowledging something or the other, and next to him, Nivans gave a few curt nods.

After that, things moved a little fast.

She didn’t need the _barr_ off and her gates open to see how the five men who’d boarded the airplane with Redfield and her grew restless. Or how the Furnace himself did anything but. Where they began tugging on their harnesses, and their boots started shuffling, he remained… very him.

Silent, stone faced. Focused. More so than ever, she thought, as if nothing mattered but him and his grim purpose.

A red light flashed into green, and overhead a bright glare joined the soft glow that had been with them since they’d boarded.

Redfield unlatched his harness. Got to his feet. “Disembark,” he told his men, and _click-click-click_ they went as their own ties snapped open.

Sadja followed, though she did so with a care not to get into anyone’s way. They gathered weapons, which had been secured at the front of the beastie, had them handed out by Nivans with a narrow scowl on his brow. When it was her turn, the scowl faltered. Fell flat on its face. He hesitated. Glanced up and around her, probably looking for Redfield and a hint of _I changed my mind, let’s leave her here,_ but when he didn’t get that, he handed her a sidearm.

Very reluctantly, and she had to give it a pull before he let go.

And because Sadja had been bored for all too long, she let her tongue go off without explicit permission: “Thank you, Neevanz.”

He gritted his teeth.

They didn’t head down a rickety set of stairs, or go through a tube, like she’d done before when Redfield had taken her home to his Americas. No, this beastie just shat them right out, opened a hatch at the back, and they thumped down it until their boots hit asphalt.

Dusk greeted them. Or what was left of it, at any rate. The the skies were a shade too dark for day, but still a little short of night. No stars. No moon. Dark clouds rolled by quickly, carried by a hard wind that tasted of earthy spice competing with the stench of processed oils and smoke.

A look around showed her mountains not too far off: tall, blocky shadows raking at the heavens. The city around them looked tiny and flat in comparison. Shy in their presence. But it tried, and as she turned on the spot and looked on across the twinkles of light lining the ground, she saw how it had grown towers and wide roofs, and thought it might all look quite pretty up close.

“Where are we, Redfield?”

* * *

  _“ **W** here we going, Redfield?”_

That hadn’t been what she’d asked, but what he’d heard at first. Like a ghost of too many ( _too little_ ) roadside breakfasts and a coffee stained map.

Chris packed the memory away, and looked at Alpha team’s brand spanking new adviser. Who, even now that her feet were back on the ground, looked pretty damn twitchy. Her fingers danced over her gear. Pinched here. Pulled there. Dove into pockets, and then came back out to wander up to her neck and gave that a scratch.

He swallowed. She looked— what? Interesting? Peculiar? Absolutely thrown off balance, with everything on a little wrong, and quite possibly unhappy. The combat vest, for one, was stiff and unwieldy on her. Heavy. It shrunk her in front of him, made her look even smaller than without, as if that bit of bulk was about to eat her up and leave him with nothing but empty gear.

His heart rapped hard against his ribcage, and Chris placed himself in front of her. When Sadja tilted her head up at him, he reached for the  _barr_ around her neck, and busied himself with adjusting it.

Carefully, because he’d found out she didn’t like it when anyone but her untied it. Had found out the hard way.

“Florence,” he clarified, and moved on to the radio tucked inside a chest pouch on her vest. He pulled it free, unravelled the wire attached to it, the earpiece on one end. She watched him, her honey coloured eyes tracking his fingers.

“We’ll get ground transport out of the city—“ his arm came up, indicated the sharp line of mountains against the darkening skies—“ head out for another two hours.”

“And then we'll get right to work? Knock on the front door, that sort of thing?” She tilted her head, gave him room to attach the earpiece, and he was careful with that too. He hooked it around the lobe of her ear, settled it firmly in place. Her eyes fluttered shut. Her lips twitched. A smile. Come and gone within two careful beats of his heart.

“Then,” he added “we find out if what we have on the compound is any good. And no, I don't think we'll be knocking.”

“Vill Marrk would think that horribly rude.” Sadja’s eyes opened, met his, and he shrugged.

On the way back to the radio, his gloved knuckles caught on the warm skin of her cheek, rode the line of her chin. A passing touch, careless and yet anything but, and Chris wanted to say _You could stay here._

But he’d tried that already. Hinted that she should stick with their handler, who’d be feeding them intel once they reached their destination. She could have watched them from there. Advised if— “ _Bloody hell, Redfield,”_ the memory of her voice cut in. _“You know that ain’t about to happen.”_

Yeah.

Besides— his hand dropped away, found the radio to dial it to the right frequency —he liked having her close by.

It grounded him.

 _She_ grounded him. Tethered him to a measure of peace, and reminded him of something. Of what, he had no idea. But it was important, and it came with a distant, stubborn itch at his insides.

Chris tucked the radio back into its pouch, secured it with a firm push, and felt her lean into the pressure.

“If all goes well, this’ll be over in a few hours. Just stick close—“

Her hands wrapped around his wrist. Pushed it down and away from her.

“—do as you say, and try not to get shot. I’ve got this, Redfield, stop worrying. This isn’t my first… uh…” Her brow quirked.

“Rodeo,” he finished for her.

“Mh. That. Rodeo.”

He stepped away after a passing nod, and when his eyes cut back to the rest of his team, _they_ looked away. All except Piers, who stood by the driver’s door of their borrowed vehicle, a rifle securely held against his chest, and a deep seated frown on him.

Five weeks.

Sadja had been with them for _five_ weeks. So what if the first eighteen days of that had been a little— complicated? Full of alien chatter, threats delivered to the B.S.A.A techs with blunt knifes and bared teeth— and pillows thrown across the room. Or at him. Repeatedly. Aside of that she’d been relatively behaved. Relatively. And after that, she’d been a picture of compliance.

Most of the time.

Piers still didn’t trust her, and with his ATLs obvious mistrust came a ripple of the same through the rest of his men. Except for Rose. Rose had taken to her the moment he’d heard she’d be part of the team, and gleefully retold an incident involving Piers, an abused locker, and the picture she’d snapped atop the ferris wheel.

That had helped. A little, and Chris hoped the curious glances their way earlier had been just that. Curious.

He approached them, felt her following close by, and gave Piers an encouraging nod.

“Let’s move out.”

* * *

  **T** hey drove mostly in silence, listening to the muted chatter through the radio outlining the last hour’s satellite observations of the target area, along with reports of recent movements to and from it. He reviewed up to data heat maps (equally useless as anything before), and felt a pinch of irritation at how _dead_ the place made itself look.

 _This’ll be worth it,_ he told himself. Repeatedly.

 _”Report once you reach the ace of spades,”_ HQ eventually concluded.

“Roger that, Alpha Leader out—“ And he clicked the radio off. “ETA, Piers?”

 _FWUMP_ The vehicle bounced as it swung right, broke off from the paved mountain road winding its way upwards, and followed a narrow, barely cleared dirt path instead. Their headlights tracked along deep furrows of tractor tracks, and a thick forest leaning in close.

“Ten, Captain.”

“Alright. Gear check everyone.”

The rattle of the vehicle bumping its way further uphill was joined by the rustle of cloth, the sharp _CLACK_ of weapons being submitted to a last minute inspection, and a whole lot of pre-engagement hush.

Even Sadja sat in silence. She’d taken to staring out the window, her shoulders pulled up tight, and Chris thought he knew damn well what she was thinking.

_What if this goes wrong._

_What if there isn’t anything there?_

_What if Ada Wong isn’t there, or you won’t find anything leading to her?_

His hand tightened around the barrel of his rifle, and with the strained grip came a familiar noose that settled below his chin. Hot and cold and he was so fucking done with it. It pulled, and he wished he tear it off. Rip it to shreds. Not sit here and wait for it to pass, because it _always_ passed. Sometimes it just took a little while longer. And sometimes it needed a little help.

His fingers twitched. His throat felt parched. And his heart squeezed.

Three little vices to help him breathe, and his eyes cut up to the dark pane of glass of the windshield to find one of them.

What he found first were the vague reflections of six men involved in their preparations.  

Piers. Focused on the road. Looking ready for anything.

Marco Rose, fiddling with his radio. Theo Reid, resetting a magazine. Jeff Carver, looking a lot younger than he was with his helmet strapped to his head. Keaton Wash, a man Chris hadn’t ever met before, but who’d looked downright ecstatic when he’d been asked to join today’s task force.

Sadja. Looking right back at him. The noose shook free.

Not all the way.

But just enough.

Nine minutes later, the vehicle rolled to a stop, and with a soft clap against the dash, Chris had them pile into the night. They followed his quiet instructions, spread out in a loose formation, and held their positions while Piers got their bearings.

Thirty seconds after their boots had hit damp, leafy ground, they began their trek through a night so still, Chris wished for anything but the hollow thump of soil under their feet and the rustle of vegetation parting around them. Even the wind had died down.

They reached the compound five minutes after they’d left the vehicle, and fanned out in front of a tall, meshed fence that kept the compound ringed in.

Inconvenient. _But doable._

Chris indicated the fence, then jabbed a finger at Reid, who returned a muffled “Yessir.”

And while Reid worked on getting them through, and the rest of his men kept an eye out with their rifles pointed out into the night, Chris surveyed the structure.

A three story villa. Three wings, according to schematics. Four outbuildings: a garage, storage, and a guesthouse. Long vacated, but not abandoned. According to records, it was home to a skeleton staff keeping the thing from falling apart. Housekeepers, gardeners, etc.. Civilians who might or might not have stayed for the night.

But nothing that would warrant the frequent traffic up the access road. Or the shit ton of power the thing pulled. By the end, it was the electricity syphoning that had convinced the B.S.A.A to take another look, a tell tale sign of _There’s something going on,_ that was too glaring to ignore.

Not like he could tell from here though. The villa looked about as dark as the forest surrounding it, save for a faint ring of light creeping around its front. Hollow, vacant windows sat in its facade. Pitch black. No movement. Nothing that’d indicate anyone was home.

The fence came apart and they moved on, crossed a stretch of neatly trimmed grass.

Still a lot of silence. A lot of nothing, but Chris needed to believe there’d be more. That there’d be _something._ That they weren’t just about to break into what had once been a rich, civilian family’s estate and come away from it empty handed.

They found the service door that would give them access into a glass roofed courtyard— at least if the blueprints were to be trusted. It was locked, but _locks were meant to be undone,_ Sadja had once told him, and he let her undo this one.

Down on her haunches she went, and a set of proper picks went to work. Not the homemade pins, or the pocket knife she’d carried around on their trip through Europe. No— this one was B.S.A.A issued, and why that came with a shy suggestion of _This is right,_ Chris didn’t want to dwell on.

He sorted the emotion away, went back to focusing on the still air around them, and listened for the _click_ of the lock giving way.  

Sadja returned to his side once she’d gotten the door open. Vanished somewhere off by his right shoulder, diving out of sight, and almost out of mind. He knew she followed him through after Rose and Carver had secured the courtyard. That she hovered close by, a tangible shadow pressed against his side.

“We’re going in, commencing radio silence,” Piers murmured somewhere off to his left, and the reply came quick: “Affirmative Alpha. Good luck.”

Below the domed glass roof, the air was thick. Stale. A little too much on the warm end. Hardly any of the residual light filtered through the dirt covering the dome. Lichen and moss crusted the outside of it, much as they did the inside, and it _reeked._

Whatever gardener they’d put on retainer? He was fucking shit.

Once smooth rock by his feet had overgrown with grass. Shrubs had grown thick. Dead leaves crunched under his soles.

It smelled dead. Old.

Chris frowned. He didn’t like things that smelled dead.

And he didn’t like villas. Or chateaus. Or mansions. _Any_ big fucking buildings with old walls and old _everything_ , where luxury sat side by side with grim memories.

It was all too much _like the good old times,_ like the Arklay mountains, or the Spencer estate. He exhaled, let his eyes cut between the three possible doors leading inside the building, and ran his thoughts right against the uncertainty of his first choice.

_Shit._

Whatever door he picked, he’d send three men down the other one. And if there was something more here than a housekeeper with a fucking duster (because clearly there wasn’t about to be a gardener), then those three men would walk into danger.

But they’d do so happily. Because that was what they did.

It wasn’t like he could— “Redfield.” Sadja’s voice tickled at his ear, drew his eyes to her.

Piers hovered around her. Alternated between scanning the courtyard and flicking his gaze between them.

She’d pulled the _barr_ off her neck at some point, had looped it together and tied it to her belt. Undone _that_ lock too, it seemed, and she looked— concerned? Frightened? A little on edge, with her right hand balled into a fist and rotating on its wrist. Then she wiggled her fingers lose, and they pointed at a particular door. Subtly.

She nodded towards it, a faint and easily missed gesture. Meant for him.

 _There’s something this way,_ all of that said.

The relief he felt came with a cold, heavy knot in his stomach. Anticipation. Dread. A faint echo of something distantly related to thrill _._

His choice made, Chris turned to his team. 

“Rose. Reid. Carver. Scope out the east wing. Maintain radio contact at all times and _do not_ engage unless you have absolutely no choice. Move on west, and circle back the main building last. Piers, Wash, you’re with me. We’re starting on the basement.”

The acknowledgements came quick, and the group split up, took position by their respective doors and readied themselves for a night spent hunting monsters.

Chris knew it was too much to hope that one monster would come with pale skin, jet-black hair, and a cold, red smile. But he’d hold his breath for a while anyway, just long enough for the door to come open, and Piers’ flashlight to cut into the thick darkness greeting them.

And down they went.


	38. Easy--

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sadja finds herself between the sharp knife that's Piers Nivans, and the unyielding tide that's Redfield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m playing a bit more with world building in this, trying to gauge Sadja’s abilities a bit better (remember, a good portion of this fic is here to help me build my own magic system). Any feedback around this would be greatly appreciated! :D

  **Easy—**

* * *

  **T** he whole deal of thumping down the stairs was equal measures unnerving and undeniably exciting. Below, lay the unknown: Vil Mark, Ada Wong, or a purple unicorn with water lilies impaled on its horn. White ones. Golden flecked.

Huffing and puffing and—

_Scatter. You. Brain. Sort yourself, will you?_

Sadja tucked her thoughts away, and followed the staggered row of broad shoulders shadows that crept after cones of light. One step at a time, ever downward. And careful not to get underfoot, or step in the way of a sweeping rifle muzzle.

Her focus turned outwards. Listened. The _thump-thump_ of feet, and swish of cloth. The gentle click of their gear. A thrum in the air, seeping out from thick pipes running along the ceiling.

They hit the bottom. Fanned out, with Redfield at the front, a tall and blocky spearhead that had taken to her suggestion of a little urban spelunking.

All because she'd heard something. Or felt, rather. And she bounded past her gates now, flung herself around Nivans and Wash. Swept by Redfield, his scorching heat tearing after her, and listened some more.

There, in the dark— in the murky, sodden nothing this world came stitched together of —hid a whisper. Shy. Barbed. It tasted like a bite of meat you weren't altogether sure about, since it might leave you sick. Sounded like the out of tune twang of a string before it snapped and cut you open.

But it was there.

Somewhere.

Maddeningly difficult to pinpoint, what with Redfield so close by, and that was terribly distracting. All that scalding heat and unyielding purpose. Alert. _Ready._ Very much wanting to raze the whole bloody place, if that was what it took to get what he wanted.

Sadja cocked her head.

What he _wanted_ clearly wasn't what they'd stepped into though, their boots meeting a soft, dusty carpet. A vaulted ceiling. Pretty red brick walls catching their lights. Racks to the left. Lots of them. And most of them full with dusty bottles.

A wine cellar.

“Have you found your thirst again, Redfield?”

His right shoulder jumped. Three sets of eyes went to her, along with the halfway turn of a muzzle.

_I get it, Nivans. You don't like me. Boohoo._

Sadja plodded right, into a large room with a dead fireplace on one end, and an arrangement of comfortable looking chairs. At its center stood a pool table. Also dusty.

No monsters though.

Nivans sighed. His rifle lowered (now entirely pointed at the floor, rather than sniffing into her direction), and his hand swept down the side of it as if to give it a caress. A _We'll get her another time_ sort of pat.

“Dead end, Captain?”

Redfield’s quirked a brow at her on that question, and Sadja couldn’t help the shrug. She’d have liked to say _No,_ but she really had no way of telling.

“Let’s take a look around,” their leader decided after a moment of mulling over his options, and with his jaw set tight, and the rifle snug against his chest, started doing just that.

She trailed him. Cobwebs in the corners. Dead overhead bulbs set in iron. Colourful balls on the pool table. A couple of sticks mounted to the wall. Three oil paints depicting fields and forests hanging from naked brick.

No. Monsters.

Her hip brushed the pool table, and she swooped up a green ball. It was cold. Heavy. She bounced it in her palm. Up and down and up and down, while her feet carried her through the room and her fingers traced the rough brick. They hooked against one of the pool sticks. It snagged. Fell. And because that’d make racket, Sadja dove after it, catching it before it could rap on the floor, her nose not far from the carpet.

That was where she smelled it. A hint of something out of place. Of infirmaries and festering wounds. Moderately gross.

Her nose twitched.

Trindram, Elaya bless his heart, had once told her how nothing happened without reason. By his logic, she'd been clumsy because she'd been meant to be. Since luck, according to the Augur, was a myth.

But Sadja liked her dumb luck, and she liked having a say in things, and firmly believed that she'd gotten lucky. That it hadn't been Elaya nudging her on, or Tre guiding her eyes to the smooth brick looking horribly out of place amongst its bricky friends.

She'd been clumsy. A right little clutz. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Three sets of eyes tracked her as she flipped the stick around, the chalk covered pointy end pressing against the brick that didn't much look like a brick at all.

And fancy that: it gave way.

_CLICK_

_CLACK_

The wall jolted. Rifles rose to the challenge. Stone grated, and dust shook free where the wall parted in front of her. Light flickered on— _PLING PLING PLING_ —and took a good chunk out of the darkness around them. It was horribly bright.

The smell got worse, and Sadja’s heart skipped forward. So did her feet, and they carried her two steps towards the light before a heavy hand fell on her neck.

 _Oh come_ ON, _I'm a big girl—_ Redfield pulled her back.

One quick yank and he was in front of her, his hard stare fixated on the hole she’d opened for them. His rifle was up. Held snugly to his cheek, the butt of it dug firmly into his shoulder.

He stepped into the white passage, and Sadja felt the drag of grim determination prowling on ahead. A hulking, bristling beast with its flanks aflame.

She shivered, chilled by the touch of cold air on her skin— and running hot where his presence touched her.

“Well, shit.” Nivans followed. Passed her, his hazel eyes squinting as they adjusted to the glare.

Where Redfield's intent was a steel drum weight rolling ever forward, Nivans and his focus came with a hard edge. One that Sadja took care not to get in the way of it.

Or him. Period. For there lay trouble.

“This wasn’t on the blueprints," Nivans added.  "Want me to call it in?”

A nod from Redfield, and on he went, prattling about possible _sites_ and _perimeters_ and whatnot, while the lot of them kept moving.

Sadja stayed quiet in their midst, the stick still grasped in one hand, and the ball in the other. Looking mighty ridiculous, she figured, and squeezed the ball into a big enough satchel on her vest. The stick snapped against her shoulder. Played make believe at being a sheathed longsword, even if a little dull and brittle and mostly useless. It was oddly comforting anyway.  

The whiff from before grew heavier as they progressed, got less clean. Took on more rot, stale decay clinging to her nostrils, and made her want to sneeze.

And the itch past the reach of her soul lingered. Like the distant pitter patter of acrid rain. It wasn't drawing nearer, or if it was, it was skirting her whenever she reached for it, diving out of sight at the slightest suggestion of her getting a firm grip.

Scared.

_Familiar._

Under hear heart, the beast huffed.

The passage ended in a T-junction. A left and a right— and Redfield’s rifle flicked one way, while Nivans’ pointed his down the other.

No monsters.

 _Jab_ Redfield’s hand went, a quick flick down the length of his weapon. Boots shifted on the concrete floor. Followed without a beat missed, Nivans taking up the rear, his eyes still down the passage like he’d expect something to come after them.

Smooth and perfect, and in meaningful silence.

Curious— because whenever wasn’t she —Sadja trapped a breath in her lungs and granted herself a moment of focus on something else than the distant hum of something frighteningly familiar. She looked for the smouldering Furnace, and the sharp knife that was Nivans. Two vastly different men, their souls distinct and undeniably _theirs._

 _Leave them alone, they have a right to themselves,_ Sinvik would have said. Yeah— right. _Hypocrite,_ would have been her reply.

Wasn't like they'd notice. And wasn't like she had anything better to right now, so Sadja let herself ride the current between them. Noted the harmony to it. How it swept along the faint wisp that amounted to Wash, and enticed her to come along too, because the knew what they were doing, and there wasn’t a place better than amongst them.

They shared a foundation. An idea of purpose. Something that ran deep and interlaced where their souls connected.

Where the knife caught flame. Melted. Got forged anew, the blade sharper than before. Obedience and command.

Kin.

Sadja frowned.

She was an intruder between them. A stranger that got in the way, someone who’d paid little heed to what she’d knocked off balance when she’d returned Redfield to his life.

There’d been a rift between these men that neither knew how to cross, and her presence hadn’t helped. Had muddled things. Brought discord.

Though here, with their lives at the mercy of the other, they’d easily crossed that gap. Come back together in a neat fit.

 _Real_ neat, and there was a word for that. Every culture and world had it, though they more often than not got it horribly wrong: _Val’his._ One of soul, one of the same. Soulmates. A misunderstood and romanticised concept, and not as rare as many liked to think.

It was a compatibility which stretched beyond physical attraction, one that allowed a brief meeting to linger, or made fast friends at the first shake of hands.

And it made her jealous.

Sadja collected herself. Drew away from them. She swallowed a lump, choked down irrational yearning.

A _Cad’his_ had no _Val._ A _Cad’his_ faked what she needed, made herself appear to be someone she wasn’t.

Wasn’t ever just _her._

There'd never be a matching fit.

* * *

 **H** is earpiece pinched. The wire dangling from it scraped at his neck. Sweat beaded his forehead— pooled against the collar of his shirt. Itched.

Chris exhaled. Relaxed his jaw. Eased up on the grinding of his teeth, and willed his hands to loosen the grip on his rifle.

_This is it._

_This is_ something.

Each step deeper into the bright light brought a hard knock of his heart, a frantic beat that drummed up his spine and set his nerves on edge.

 _Not a dead end. You_ know _this shit, Redfield. Fucking act the part._

And he did. Didn’t he? Knew it all too damn well. The bleak walls. The sharp stench of chemicals in the air promising something familiar and terrible. Something that he'd fallen into fifteen years ago, and hadn't found a way out of yet.

 _Won't ever, at this rate. I'll just keep on fucking trucking. Like my own private horror movie franchise, one shit_ _sequel at a time_.

With bad sets.

A long, wide corridor. Naked concrete walls. Fluorescent lights. The echo of their footfalls following two lines painted on the ground. Yellow and green, with a blue one having arched off to the right earlier. _Garage,_ a label had declared it. _RnD_ and _Offices_ sounded a lot more interesting than a Neo Umbrella car park.

A good thirty feet later, the yellow and green lines angled sharply right, and vanished underneath a double winged metal door. It stood ajar. Further down the corridor, maybe twenty more feet, stood a wall. Metal crates were stacked against it.

_Dead end._

His eyes cut to the door.

_You can do this._

He took up position in front of it. Shifted the rifle in his grip.

_Easy._

Nothing new. Routine. Habit. Practiced.

Wash took up position to his right, a hand on the door. Piers mirrored him. Finger hovering by the trigger of the weapon held at the ready.

He nodded. Clapped a hand on Piers' shoulder.

_Easy._

The door came open, and he stepped inside, swept the room spread out in front of him. Eyes left. Eyes right. Eyes front.

Metal grates at his feet. Finely meshed. Benches on the walls. Lockers on one side. Walls painted white. Shunted ventilation tubes. A door across, and mounted above it the cracked remains of a red bulb.

UV lights on the ceiling, and as they stepped in they came alive, cast the walls in a ghastly sheen.

 _Decontamination_.

His eyes flicked to a pile of white. White and red. Discarded lab suits, one of them caked in dried blood. Too much blood. A trail of dark red arched away from it. Joined the lines of yellow and greed that led through the room, and snuck under the door on the other side.

Also open.

His stomach knotted. No reception above. No resistance below. A trap? No. Unlikely, this hadn't been easy to find. Too likely to be missed, nothing to lure them here. Leftovers?

_Whatever. Still doable._

“Clear.” Rifles lowered and footfalls followed him, and he cast a look at his team. Residential burden included. With a cue stick resting on her shoulder?

He blinked. Arched a brow at her. Earned himself a sideways cock of her head and the briefest of smiles, and wondered why he even bothered trying to fit _normal_ on her. It slid right off.

Chris kept his eyes on her as he tapped his earpiece. "Alpha Leader, HQ do you copy—”

“Report.”

“We have a possible site breach, I’d suggest scrambling a bigger team for a full sweep.”

“Acknowledged. What’s your status, Alpha?”

“We’re proceeding with reconnaissance.”

“…and maybe we’ll leave some on the way out,” Piers added once the line cut, a careful smile on him that reminded Chris of better times.

_Less complicated ones, anyway._

“Okay. Sadja?”

Her eyes flicked to him.

“Keep close. We have no idea what to expect in there, but it isn’t looking good.“

She nodded.

“If you see anything at all—“

“I’ll make a noise.”

“Great. And— and don’t touch anything.”

She frowned. “Spoilsport.”

He took up position. The others followed suit, repeating the motions from moments before. Except this time, Piers was throwing glances between him and his curious burden, his mouth a thin, grim line.

“Open it up,” Chris interrupted, and he snapped back to the task at hand.

_This is ridiculous. Do I really need to lock you two into a room when we're back?_

Probably.

The doors came apart. UV light flooded into the flickering dark waiting on the other end, blooming outwards and catching on swathes of blood. It turned it black, a stark contrast against the otherwise white walls.

Chris flicked his light back on. Let it sweep down the wide, squat hall. He inhaled carefully, smelled the stale air. More chemicals, and the sickly sweet stink of death.

No bodies. No movement.

 _Advance,_ his first step said, and they fell in line. Spread out evenly.

Bloody footprints. Dead overhead lights. Dim, red light up ahead. Flashing. Rotating.

“Something’s gone to shit here,” Piers noted.

“Yeah. And they didn’t bother locking up.”

_Typical._

Doors flanked the corridor, and it was slow going to check them all. Set up in front of one. Signal. Sweep. “Clear.” Repeat.

Number four yielded the first body: a woman in a lab coat, her limbs and neck oddly twisted as she lay crumpled in a corner.

“Clear.”

Five was locked, but a bull hole allowed some light through. The insides of the glass were frosted. And the shapes stacked on shelves looked a lot like more bodies. Wrapped. Tagged.

Chris turned away from it, and led them deeper. Past a set of gurneys pushed against the wall. Under the rotating red right at the junction. He paused. Considered. Left or right?

_Bang._

He snapped right, rifle and light diving for the noise. Metal on metal, the echo of it still bounding through the corridor. More clatter. A thump— a scraping sound.

_Table being bumped into._

His throat clicked. His fingers twitched. At the end of the corridor stood another door, its wing falling open. Slowly. Almost methodical, as if someone had nudged it gently, and had then retreated into the pitch black lying beyond.

_Doable._

He followed the noise. The door thumped against the wall. Almost there— his muscles pulled against his back. Ached with tension. His neck prickled, hair standing rapt.

“Wash,” Chris murmured, three feet away from the door. “Take up the rea—“

“Redfield.”

The muted alarm in Sadja’s voice jolted his nerves. Sent lighting dancing up his spine. _Really_ got the muscle in his back worked up.

He cast a look behind them.

It stood unmoving. Two legs. Two arms. About as tall as Piers. The red light bounced shadows off its form, let them dance in jerky motions over the wall.

Its head lolled slightly to the side. Twitched. Something dangled from its right hand. A hammer?

Piers sidled up next to him, rifle up and ready. Jerking left and right, at the second— third— fourth figure fanning out behind the first.

_Still doable._

Figure number one moved. Took one step.

"Stop," he tried— because you always tried. You warned first. Gave them a choice, just in case they had one. And if they kept coming, like this one, then you gave them one more.

He dipped the barrel. Squeezed. Once, twice— a short burst that bit into the ground by the figure’s feet. The shots rang loud in the confined space. Thrummed along his bones. Rattled the concrete.

The figure faltered, made a noise— words that weren't quite words— and broke into a choppy sprint.

“Okay then.” Chris gritted his teeth. Adjusted his aim. Squeezed off three shots. Two smacked wetly into the target’s chest, the third caught it under its chin. Its head snapped back, and it crumpled in a spray of red.

The others started moving, all three armed with blunt objects dangling from their fingers. Piers clipped the leftmost one.  

 _Clipped_ it.

Piers didn’t clip. Didn’t miss. Not unless he meant to.

Behind him (always behind him, because he’d told her to) Sadja drew in a sharp breath. And Piers cursed. Shot again. _Missed_ again, and Chris saw the spark of dirty pink flare where the thing’s head was. And how the bullet tore into the wall behind it.

“You’ve got to be fucking with me,” he groaned.

“Sir?” Piers’ voice leaned heavily towards uncertainty, his fingers flexing by the trigger. “What the hell?”

“Fire at will,” was all he had to say, and three rifles filled the corridor with deafening noise. Two went down. Two didn’t, because they wouldn’t get _hit._

“Jesus Christ—“

“Behind!” Wash.

Chris turned.  Three more hostiles poured from the open doorway. Headed right for them, because where the fuck else would they go?

One spun left, caught a bullet against its shoulder, and went down. Temporarily. they closed in.

He'd gotten them surrounded.

Trapped.

Killed.


	39. Synthesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I update 'dis! _*holds up chapter proudly*_
> 
> More playing with world building and my magic system, but also more Redfield. Gotta have the Redfield.

**Synthesis**

* * *

 

 **》** ” **E** uch—“ Sadja pressed her lips against the back of her hand and gagged. Rot clung to her. Oily. Slick. It bubbled down her throat. Coated it all the way down, and anchored deep in her core.

She wanted to throw up. Hack it all out; the stench and the foulness. The _wrong_ of its revolting touch.

“Soul rot,” Sinvik said next to her, brushed by with quiet steps. “He’s been flailed. Come along, he’s no threat. Just a little ways further and it’ll pass.”

Rubbing her hands against her elbows, Sadja trailed the Keeper, and paused only briefly to steal a glance at the skinny boy huddled into the depth of his cell, bedded on a pile of straw. He was still breathing. Still had a little meat on his bones, and a heart labouring ever onward in his chest.

But there was death on him. His soul broken. Rent to shreds. Beyond help and beyond life. Nothing left. And it showed in how his eyes listlessly tracked her, missing that spark. Missing _life_.

To this day she often wondered if it'd had been better they'd stopped and killed him. **《**

 **T** he crowd closing in around them, jerky shadows dancing behind them in the roving red light, looked halfway to dead.

Their skin tinted blue. Their veins thick and dark underneath, as if they’d had their blood replaced by swampy molasses. Sadja scrunched her nose up. Pulled herself together. It wasn't what they looked like that got her spine stiff. It was the _wrong_ of them. How they reminded her of the nameless boy in a nameless dungeon after the Nightingale had her way with him for a nameless reason.

They were still meek in the Verge. Faint and spindly. Like stillborn souls spat into the world already dead, and never given a chance to grow.

And they were slippery.

Once out of her gates, she slid off them like oil wouldn’t bind to water, and came away with the rot trailing after her.

They weren’t Sare.

Sadja slid back. Grabbed her pool stick firmly. Let the first one reach her, and snapped forward to crack the stick against its head before it could swing its own weapon at her. A wrench of sorts. Thick and heavy. Likely painful if it landed.

Not Sare— but _something_.

She felt the impact of her stick coming down. A sharp twang in the Verge. The scent of a lit match, and a brief glint of pale glass shattering where wood had been supposed to meet skin and get all cozy with the skull underneath.

_Shielded? How?_

She readjusted. Exhaled with an irritated huff. They came wrapped in Elaya’s hem with their broken souls turned outwards, and that was a useful trick. A _simple_ trick. But also a little foolish, since it wasn't easily sustained. Every Sare learned it’d exhaust them quickly. Leave them vulnerable.

The man with his wrench lurched sideways, thrown off target by the impact. Another took its place quickly. Wearing the same simple clothes and shoes and the murderous intent in bloodshot eyes.

Not Sare. Something else. Something _less,_ with a hint of more, and Sadja’s gut twisted. Was this Vil Marrk’s handy work? But how?

_Irrelevant. Focus._

Which was easier said than done, what with the tightly packed hall all noise and not much else. Gunfire cracked sharply against her ears. Set the ground beneath her trembling, and shifted the air. She smelled gunpowder. Blood. The acrid taste of where bullets cracked into shimmering shields made of those stillborn souls.

A quick glance over her shoulder showed Redfield and his men with their backs to her. Bodies lay sprawled in front of them. More yet kept rushing forward.

They’d be busy for a while.

So she cocked at her head at the man still staggering for her.

_Might as well earn my keep._

He was unarmed. But she didn’t like the snarl of his lips, how they were pulled back. Red and bloody, like he’d got into some red pudding. Smeared it over his chin and down his throat.

Sadja dipped forward and under him. Caught him on her shoulder on the way up and sent him tumbling over her back. The full weight of him pressed down hard. Lit her up where it touched, a sort of crackling, _fizzing_ contact that left her soul wanting to bolt the other way. He slapped down on the ground behind her, and she spun. Flicked the stick in her hands to point the thin end at him. Willed herself together and down along the shaft. Thought of sharp things. Of knifes and swords, borrowing a bit of inspiration from Nivans right then and there.

With a jab, Sadja drove the stick into his heart. Cut right through the shield he’d snapped around him, shattering it with a brief glint of glass breaking in thin air.

The stick went through cloth and skin and muscle and then promptly splintered.

“Bugger.”

And when she stepped back, about half of her weapon remaining, the Sare-man-thing she'd impaled got back up.

“Elaya’s bloody cunt, _what!_ ”

Behind her, Mr. Wrench had recovered. He lurched for her, got a chin-full of what was left of her staff, and a hard kick against the side of his knee that came with a thought of a horse trampling the ground. The knee cracked, and the man fell, but only because the leg gave way when he tried to set it back down.

Frustrated, with her heart now having caught on and hammering wildly, Sadja danced away from more arms grasping for her. Two sets, in fact. The man with her stick bobbing from his ribcage, and a newcomer with a knife clutched in his fist. It had a very long blade. And was already coated in red.

Mr. Stabby there had red on _his_ mouth too, and then some down the front of his shirt. Thick and dry.

 _Pleasant._  

She wove out of reach of the knife. Slapped the stick down on the next swing, and caught the arm to twist him around her in a dance that landed him against the wall. The stick dropped from her hand. Her knife whispered from its sheath. She slashed at him. Glanced off a milky shield flaring at his chest.

_... really?_

Urgent pressure snatched at her navel.

Abandoned another swing, Sadja felt a grab glance off her arm, catch on cloth and then slip off. Chest-Unicorn had come back around for her, and Mr. Wrench had crawled over too. She leapt awkwardly over the wiggling, prone body. Put a wall to her back— _Poppycock —_ and realised that hadn't been the best of ideas. 

"Come on then," she taunted. Readjusted her grip on the knife. Caught another glint of shields sparking under the edge when she tried to cut at Chest-Unicorn's throat. So she borrowed a little from Redfield, thought very fiercely of vivid heat, and stabbed the blade under a wagging chin.

It cracked the shield. Slid right in. Stopped him. He crumpled.

But for some reason, the sodding knife had a serrated edge on one end, caught on something, and ripped right from her fingers.

 _One,_ she counted down.

_Two to go._

Sadja refocused on Mr. Stabby and Mr. Wrench. Stabby lunged for her. _He_ still had his knife, and he had a shield on him, but _Not a problem, we've had worse. We have this all under perfect control. Oh boy—_

She let him stab for her. Caught the arm in the crook of her elbow. His soul buzzed with an electric thrumm against her. Numbed her. Scattered her thoughts. Almost made her let go with thick pressure driving into her bones. She gritted her teeth. Bent the arm the wrong way— sharply up— and heard his shoulder come free with a meaty _POP._

The knife dropped. Clattered to the concrete.

He grunted— didn’t scream or howl in pain— didn’t stop either, and she thought that was real bullshit right there. His head turned for her. His teeth clicked. And because his shoulder wasn't in the way any more, and his arm flopped around freely, they got real close to her throat.

Her elbow snapped up. Rapped into the side of his head. Staggered him just long enough to yank him off his feet and send him sprawling. She followed him. Dug a knee into his chest. Slipped the pool ball from her pocket, her fingers holding on tight enough to strain the gloves over her knuckles.

She slogged him in the side of the head once. Then twice— at number four, glass came apart against the ball. Cracked finely with a soft crunch to fall away in thin, wispy shards and vanish into the Verge. Five got the skull. Seven was bloody. Eight and nine were messy, and Sadja rolled off him. The ball was slick with warm blood and rolled to the ground with a muted clack.

Out of breath— because beating a man, right along with his soul, took effort —Sadja rolled on her back. Sucked in some air, and kicked herself away from Mr. Wrench half dragging himself, half limping, right for her. He almost reached her by the time she’d pulled the sidearm free.

And missed. The thing rocked in her hand and the shot went wide. The second one did too, glanced off a spark of pink and slammed into the wall someplace else.

 _Seen this before. For fucks sake, you’re_ terrible.

Then a set of boots thumped down next to her. Rushed by. Kicked the reaching man in the chin and flopped him on his back. The boots came attached to Redfield, who brought his rifle forward. Set it close to Mr. Wrench's head. Squeezed the trigger. Three loud cracks rang her ears. The first ripped clean through its shield. Broke it with a trailing pop and crunch and a glint of misty white laced with red. Two more ripped into bone and snapped Mr. Wrench's head back hard.

Thin smoke curled from the rifle barrel. Her nose itched with the sharp scent of gunpowder.  

Redfield stood staring along his rifle, like he was waiting for the dead man to decide to rise again. His shoulders heaved. His eyes cut to her. Stayed there for a little while, brows turned down with concern, before they flicked back up and down the corridor. It had gotten quiet, she noted. Somewhere past her ears singing a pitched tune, was a lot of silence and the tap of boots on the ground.

"Clear," Nivans said.

"Clear," Wash echoed.

And that was that? The scuffle won?

Wincing, Sadja pressed her palms against her ringing ears, and shook her head like that'd make a difference. It didn't. Though it did get Redfield's attention, and he crossed the distance to her with a subtle rush in his step.

“You alright?”

“Mh.” She propped herself up and looked around, taking in the aftermath of their scuffle. Dead men on the floor. Redfield and his still standing. All equally perplexed, except for their Captain maybe. He looked about as rattled by the assault as a rockwall might if you butted your head into it; _nice try, now why are you giving yourself a headache?_

If anything, he looked a little doubtful. Cautious, with his brows turned upwards and his mouth slanted in a frown.

"I'm fine," she tried to convince him, and he grunted in response. Offered her a hand. Pulled her up when she accepted. Once she stood, his hand fell away, ghosted along her back with a whisper of glove-on-cloth that carried gentle heat with it.

She would have preferred to latch on to that. Lean into it. But her eyes skipped to the dead, and her mind tripped over each body, with a lot of _How-How-How_ wailing in her skull.

_Elaya have mercy on me— what did I walk into?_

* * *

 _**Y** ou’re hovering, _ Chris told himself.

She _looked_ fine. Unharmed. No scratch on her. Unlike Wash, who stood pressing a gloved hand to his bleeding arm where he’d been stabbed by one of the— the what?

Chris stepped away from Sadja and over to the body of the last one he’d put down.

“Captain—“ Piers came up behind him. Shot a pointed glance at Sadja on his way. “Rose’s team haven’t found anything in their wing. Do we want them down here?”

“No." He sighed. Rattled all his options off in his head. Felt like he'd been down this road before. One too many times and then some. "Have them set up a perimeter, secure the lab entrance. Nothing gets up or down those stairs.”

“Yessir. Rose—“ While Piers relayed the orders, Chris stared down at a perfectly normal looking man with pasty, white skin and thick, black veins. He held a wrench clutched in dead fingers. Wore a simple T-shirt and a pair of loose jeans. No ID tags from what he'd seen.

He prodded the body with the end of the rifle. Moved the arm aside. Hitched the collar of the shirt down. No other discolouration, and no decay. Not yet, anyway. His eyes cut to the side, found another body, this one with Sadja's knife jutting from its throat. And the pool stick from its chest.

A leaden weight clung to his gut. _A T-Virus variant?_ He frowned. _Doesn’t add up. There’d be more bruises. Sores. This doesn't feel right._

Whenever had any of it though? Not ever, he admitted, and he'd be an idiot if he thought that'd ever change. You didn't _rationalise_ this. Couldn't. Not really, not with how all this shit escalated year by year, with every lull only making it worse.

Maybe scientists liked to think it made perfect sense.

But to him, it'd always be hurt and death and a clear lack of reason. He looked to Sadja. Even she made morse sense. Felt more rational. Even if she was everything but.

“What are these things?” Wash cut into his thoughts. “Zombies? And what the fuck was the deal with the— the flashy lights and shit? I fucking swear my aim isn’t that shit—“

Chris flicked his hand up. Wash fell silent.

“Keep an eye down the hall. Make sure they’re _really_ dead.”

“Sir.”

Sadja wandered up next to him. Hunkered down by the body, grabbed its shoulder, and heaved it over on its stomach.

“Careful,” he said and forced aside the urge to yank her back.

“His lights are out, can’t get any more dead. They’re all dead, by the by, but there’s more here.” Her head bobbed towards the door. “Somewhere, I can’t be certain where exactly, or how many, but they're here.”

Piers pulled up by his side. Scowled at him, then down at Sadja as she started pulling the dad man’s shirt up. Chris noticed the subtle shift of Piers' rifle, how it drifted closer to her.

Again.

 _Seriously? Jesus Christ…_ He dropped a placating hand on his Lieutenant’s shoulder. The rifle lowered, but the scowl stuck around.

“What are you looking for?”

“Markings,” she told him. “Sare markings, but there aren’t any. Look—” Her head tilted to him before she nodded at the bare spine, its trail lightly discoloured by dark blotches forming against the bone. “—nothing. He’s able to tap into the Verge, and for all intents and purposes he’s a Sare. Not a very _good_ one, none of them were, but still.”

“Sare?” Piers asked. “Verge?”

Chris grimaced. Right. Piers had gotten the same half truths as the rest of the B.S.A.A, who all thought Sadja a hapless victim and yet another Umbrella leftover. “Long story.”

“Damnit, Captain.” He sighed, rubbed at his neck with his free hand, and Chris could see his jaw twitch. “Nevermind, so that’s why the shots wouldn’t land. They did the same thing like your frien—“

“Thorian Thunderstep was not a friend of mine,” she cut in. “But yes, you’re right about the rest. Doesn’t mean it makes a lick of sense, they’re not…” Sadja paused. Looked to them both, brows furrowed and her bottom lip between her teeth like she was biting down her words. “They’re _different._ Human. And you’re just as likely to turn a human into a Sare as you’re going to make a wolf out of a sheep. It doesn’t _work._ At least it isn’t supposed to.”

She climbed back to her feet. Brushed her gear down. Wiped a bloody hand on her pants.

“I don’t like this, Redfield.”

"Welcome to my life." He paused. Ran down the list of options he'd have from here on out. His eyes wandered left, to the door on the far end. Then right. Door number two.

They'd been headed that way.

“We should wait for reinforcements,” Piers said. And he was right. Chris knew that. Knew it’d be reasonable to retreat. Rejoin the rest of the team. Sit tight and wait. Let someone _else_ figure this out.

Ada wasn’t going to be here. That much was clear.

His chest squeezed. Hard anger tore the reason down. No, Ada Wong might not be here, but _something_ else might. Or someone, and if they’d sit on their hands and waited for the B.S.A.A to scramble a backup team from one of their European bases and send them over the Italian border, then that something or someone might get away.

He couldn’t afford that. Couldn't let anyone else take care of this. This was on him. This was _his_ job. His chance. No one else's.

“We’ll section off the rooms. Move slow.” He indicated door number two with a jab of his hand. "Wash, we can swap you out with—"

"Just a scratch, Sir. I'm good to keep going."

Chris glanced at him. Then up to Piers, who gave him a grim faced, but firm nod.

"Alright." He readjusted the grip on his rifle and nodded down the hall. "We're moving."

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to apologise for the horrible update schedule on this. Will try to move things ahead more frequently now :)


	40. Echo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Chris Redfield gets his soul snacked on a little, and Sadja finds a piece of home stashed behind a pane of glass.

**ECHO**

* * *

**T** he attack had spooled his nerves up tight. Sharpened his focus. Brought a deceptive calm between every beat of his heart. The _This is what you do, Redfield. This is what you're good at. This is what you've been at your whole goddamn life._  But it had also left him sore. There was a pinch in his back. A pull down his shoulder, and every movement told a tale of muscles too tired for this shit, and of weary joints creaking at the suggestion of _more._ And of course there was more. More red light. More sharp edged shadows racing ahead of it, their jerky movements making it difficult to tell if they hid something that waited to pounce.

Sadja helped. She was in front of him, her steps trailing her flashlight, and proved herself an efficient early warning system. A flick of the beam, a twist of her hips, and there'd be a Sare-Zombie-thing caught in the light, milky eyes full of murder, and crude weapons ready to deliver said murder.

Sometimes they came in pairs. Sometimes it was just one. His heart would kick up, follow the rapport of his rifle, and then simmer back down reluctantly when the threat was dealt with. Like clockwork, really. Messy clockwork. But at least they went down with relative ease; now that they knew how to deal with them.

The secret was to get in close. Real close. Get the barrel set against their head, and squeeze off three or four rounds to punch through the shield, and then two more for good measure. Tricky. But doable.

Rinse and repeat. Wasn't like this was news. Just a little bit less straightforward.

Once, during a lull that stretched on for a little too long, Chris wondered what it felt like for her. To feel them. Be aware of them hiding around a corner, or dipped in shadow. Not altogether nice, he figured, and filed it away for later. He’d ask her. Right after they’d made it out alive.

Which'd be about when Piers— and everyone else —would line up in front of him and ask him what _else_ he'd failed to mention in his reports. Why he'd thought playing a little pretend had been the smart thing to do.

That was a bridge he’d cross later though, and he’d cross it carefully. Didn’t want to step wrong and bring the whole fucking thing down. Chris grimaced. The damn bridge was probably already leaning halfway to hell, and if he wasn't careful, he'd be riding it all the way to the bottom. He didn’t particularly feel like finding out what lay down there, so he carefully packed thoughts of _later_ away, and focused on the narrow corridor made of cold, naked concrete, and a handful of rooms branching off left and right that all needed sweeping.  

Busts, most of them. Conference areas, with tables at the centre, chairs all over the place on the floor, and projectors hanging from the ceiling. Whiteboards covered with diagrams that made no damn sense to him (or any of the others) were fixed to the walls. Photographs were tacked along next to them, and he recognised some of the things on them. And judging by the look on Sadja’s face, she recognised the rest.

Her lips were slanted down. Her brows furrowed. And there was a tension sitting in her shoulders that even made _his_ neck ache with sympathy. He wanted to squeeze the line of bare skin between her short cropped hairline and the thick gear. Tell her they'd be out of here soon.

 _She's got this,_ Chris told himself, and shook that thought too. He knew he'd never stopped hovering since the first attack. Much as he knew he didn't need to, that sticking to her heels like a piece of gum was absolutely unnecessary.

But he couldn't help it. Couldn't shake how she sat the edge of his awareness, had turned to a detached part of him. When she moved ahead of him, she was a tide pulling him forward. To his left or right, his sides would tickle with an urgent tug at his insides. Behind him, she clutched at his gut like vacuum.

It was strange. Yeah. He'd go with strange and with alien and with _way out there_ , and not at all rational.

Piers, on the other hand, stayed the epitome of rational. While Chris' overworked mind ocellated between keeping the shadows from growing teeth, and Sadja from wandering off, Piers stayed on target. Levelheaded. He snapped pictures of every inch of writing, collected the photographs, and when done, indicated to him with a brief nod.

Then they'd move on. Next room. More nothing. Next. Same of the same, and he grew impatient. Number four was a little more interesting at least. It had lab equipment, and lab equipment meant _something,_ even if Chris would never claim he understood much of it. He didn't need to anyway. There were brighter heads that'd deal with the technicalities of virology, biochemistry, genetics, etc… He was good here at the front, where it all boiled down to violence.

He frowned. _Fatalistic much, Redfield?_

They flicked through papers, recorded what looked worth it. Moved on again, and found a sliding door at the end of the corridor. It was half open, almost inviting.

Chris directed everyone to stay put, Sadja included. She huffed. He glared. And she shuffled back with her hands folded at the small of her back.

To the left of the door, most of the wall was a sheet of black glass reflecting the hall's sweeping light. A blip red flared from the inside. He let his flashlight dive through the glass. Electronic equipment from floor to ceiling. Lockers. A chair with someone sitting in it, the figure slumped and unmoving, even when the light slid over it.

 _Okay._ He crossed to the door. Flicked the cone of light left and right. Still no movement. His eyes cut to a keypad mounted to the wall next to the door. Above it, _No entry below level 4_ was printed black on red, and then repeated again in Italian and German.

_Now we’re talking._

Chris stepped through first, and exhaled sharply at the thick, sweet stench of decay in the air.

Not hard to guess where that came from. The body of the man on the office chair lounged almost lazily backwards. Like he'd dozed off, with his mouth hanging open. His legs splayed out under a long computer console, and four screens were spread out in front of him. All dead like him. He’d been shot. Leaked half his brain matter from a gaping hole in his head. A trail of dried goop went down the back of the chair. Blood splatter patterns told the rest of the story.

He crossed through the room, paused at the door on the other end, and peered through the narrow gap leading into more dark corridor. Nothing was going to come through here.

"Clear."

They joined him one by one, with Piers taking interest in the corpse, Sadja skirting them both, and Wash hovering by the entrance.

“Can’t have been dead longer than four, five days,” Piers said and pointed his rifle barrel at a discarded sidearm halfway under the consoles. “Shot himself, I think. Trying to lock the place up maybe?”

“Didn’t go so well, did it?” Wash turned his face down to the dead man.

“I don’t know,” Chris said. “Nothing’s got out yet, but you’re right, it doesn’t look like anyone managed to engage a proper lockdown. We're lucky, if any of those things had gotten out we'd be looking looking at another outbreak."

He thumbed through a stack of papers on the console. Time logs. Illegible notes, mostly since they were all Italian.

"Wash?"

Wash turned to him. "Sir?"

"I want those computers back up and running. See if you can get started with transferring over data. Research records, access logs— anything that’ll give us some answers on what they were working on, and _who_ we are looking for. If this ties into Neo Umbrella, I want to know.”

“Yessir.”

Piers grabbed the corpse’s shoulder. Pulled him unceremoniously to the ground, and shoved the chair at Wash. “Have a seat.”

“I’m good standing, thanks.” Wash set the rifle snug against his side,  and with a grim smile, kicked the chair aside.

“Piers, cover him. Sadja and me will get that other door open and check out the next few rooms.”

“Sir—“ _Here we go…_ “Are you sure that’s a good idea, I could—“

“We’ll be fine. Stay in radio contact and keep me updated on the progress here. Anything as much as breathes your way, shoot first, ask questions once its down. Understood?”

Piers inhaled, and exhaled with a reluctant “Sir.”

 _Good boy._ “Sadja, you’re with me. Come on.”

With a sniff, she turned to him. Cocked her head, and flashed him a quick smile. “Getting awfully used to giving me orders there, Redfield.”

“You have no idea. Here, help me with that.”

The door in their way was barely open wide enough to stick an arm through. He rested the rifle against his side, got his fingers around the edge of the door, and set his feet apart. Across of him, Sadja braced herself a little ways below him, honey coloured eyes turned up and brows arched with muted humour.

And he pulled and she pushed, until metal scraped hard in blocked grooves and rattled inch by inch backwards.

* * *

 **M** ore darkness. More flashing red light. Less _wrong_ in the air now though, with mostly silence snuggled up against her gates. Itchy silence, she noted, and Sadja would have still liked a little bit of peace and quiet, to wrap the _barr_ around her neck and have this all fade out.

But then there was something still calling for her, a mouldy, weak whisper. It got stronger once she’d slipped through the next door, with Redfield grunting his complaint and catching up with the light on his rifle bounding around her.

“Cat’s out of the bag now, is it?” she asked when he caught up.

“Pretty much.” His light danced left. Then right. Illuminated dark, smooth rock. “I didn’t expect to keep up the ruse forever, honestly. Sure, a little longer would have been nice, because I have no idea where to even _start_ on the truth.”

“Am I going to be in trouble?”

Her gates shuddered with him knocking into them. Concerned. Unhappy about the fact.

“I don’t know. Probably not, not any more than you’ve already been.”

He paused. And so did she. Their heads tilted, brows furrowed, eyes turned to each other. Focused. Listening. Picking up a distant, hollow thump.

“Hear that?” he asked first, and Sadja nodded.

“Do I ever. Should we go take a look?”

They followed the rhythmic rattle. Closed in on it with slow, quiet steps. It reverberated along the wide pipes set in the ceiling, and led them to two doors on opposite sides of the cramped hall. One stood open, the other lacked a handle or anything to pull it open with, and did a decent job at pretending itself at being part of the wall.

So they went right, and this time he wouldn’t have any of her trying to slip in first. He bumped her aside. Blocked her with the rifle coming up in front of her, and put himself square in the way. Then he stood there, and didn’t move until he’d let his rifle take a sniff at whatever lay beyond.

“Shit,” was all he said once he’d concluded his inspection and let her through.

And _Shit_ was a good choice of words for what she felt tucked into the Verge past the door. That slice of _home._ Familiar and whole, not ravaged like the walking dead things. But weak. _Dying._ And awfully out of place. Just like her.

It was trapped in a tall cage on one end of a room, but it wasn't the only thing that had been locked away in here. The room was full of man and beast alike, though almost all of them were dead.

Redfield flinched when the inhabitants of one of the cages threw themselves forward: dogs. Or what had been dogs at some point. Before they'd gotten all mangy, with barely any fur left on them. Grey, bruised skin stretched over sharp bone, and thick, purple veins ran the length of their necks and raced along their spines. Sadja felt them growling and snapping at Elaya’s hem, and from the confines of its own little prison, her beast snarled back at them with its muzzle halfway bound by Redfield close by.

There were three men too, and a woman. All haggard and all dead. She shivered.

Sare.

They’d died curled up on the floor, thin white shifts wrapped around their bodies and their backs turned her way, naked and bruised. Lacerations and puncture marks trailed their markings. The woman, she noted with her gut twisting, had once had very pretty ones. Pinks and reds and a delicate blue, and she reminded her a little of a butterfly. After someone had gone and ripped its wings off.

Sadja squared her shoulders, turned away from the dead woman, and faced the tallest set of cages. One stood empty. The other stared back at her with a long fanged, purple grin, and dull golden eyes. Pale lips drew back over the Sarehound’s teeth, and it lurched forward to hit the glass with a hollow thump. The pane was dirty. Smeared with streaks of salvia and grease, and had a clear round mark where it had been bumping its head against it.

So that had been the noise. The thing wanting out— _Wanting me._

It tracked her movements as she wandered left. Behind her, Redfield followed suit, trailed her step by step. Though he never turned his back on the dogs growling behind the pane to his left.

“It’s dying,” she said, and he huffed.

“You sound surprised.”

“I am. They don’t _die._ ”

“We killed two just fine back at the park.”

She sniffed. Moved carefully up to the glass. Raised a hand to place it flat against the cold surface. _THUMP_ the Sarehound went with its head ramming forward. It remained there, pale skin pressed to the glass where her palm rested. A quiet, bubbling growl shook its chest. Its tail flicked. Its feathers fanned out, weakly ruffling along its head and puffing at the end of its tail. The tail flicked.

Out past her gates, the Reaper scratched and pawed, trying to get in. Desperate. Wanting. _Needing._ Not with ill intent, but with a sad whine that slipped through any crack she allowed it.

“They can be _killed,_ yes. But they won’t just die. If left alone, they’ll last for hundreds of years. Maybe thousands. See, Reapers aren’t born, not really. They’re _made._ Bit like a machine, with a clear purpose to what they're meant to achieve in Elaya's service. They don't grow. Or get old. Instead—“ She hesitated. Let her gates crack open a little.

_Bad idea._

With a gasp, she slammed them shut again, and staggered away from the cage. _Hungry-Hungry-Help-Help._

“You all right?”

Redfield caught her against his chest, and she bounced right off of it to straighten herself back out.

“Mh. I am, but it isn't. It’s dying, because there’s nothing to feed it. It’s _starving._ ”

“Huh, well I suppose no one’s been feeding them, I mean there—”

“No, not like that. Reapers go without food for a few weeks if they've got to. Don't even need that much water. But locked up here it's not got any _souls_ to feed on.”

“Wait a second. It eats… souls?”

“In a manner of speaking. See, everything’s got a soul, mh?” Her eyes went to him. His cut back to her, since he’d been glancing at the dogs again. The fingers on his rifle curled.

He shrug-nodded-sighed. “Go on.”

“You’ve got one. Nivans does. Wash does. They—“ She pointed at the dogs. “—do as well, much like a rabbit or a magpie. They fill the Verge top to bottom. Saturate it. And Reapers leech off that energy. Borrow a little here, a little there, or else their own soul withers. Theirs aren’t exactly like ours, see. They’re borrowed, yanked out from the Void and tethered to them to give them life. But since they don’t have a proper anchor, since they don't _belong,_ they’d fade eventually. And the Reaper with it.”

Redfield’s brows turned down.

“Back home, that isn’t a problem,” she continued. “There isn’t a corner in the world where there isn’t enough for them to draw from. Even standing atop the tallest mountain, Trero will still feed them, and they will never go hungry. Here…”

“We’re _simple._ ”

“Your world is. Not _you,_ look.” Sadja tapped a finger against the glass. The Sarehound’s snout snapped to her, its nostrils flaring. They snarfed down air. Huffed it back out, and turned back to Redfield. “You’ve been in here for only a few minutes, and look at it. It’s already getting better.”

Now he looked straight out alarmed. “Wait— wait— you mean—“

“Don’t worry. You’re fine, you won’t notice a thing. And the worst that could happen is a bit of fatigue, which’ll pass once you move out of its reach. Souls are marvelous like that.”

“Okay.” The rifle lowered again. “So what do you think they’ve been doing here? Splicing together Sare with humans?”

Sadja shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Mind you, I don’t _like_ yours one bit, because it spells trouble, and I have no idea what to do with it. No one’s bothered to educate me on what a Keeper does in a case like this.”

“We’ll figure it out,” he said after two heartbeats of silence heavy enough to drag down her breath. He turned on the spot, let his eyes skip between the cages. They lingered by the dead. Narrowed at the dogs. And then he nodded towards a wall full of electronics, managed two steps that way, before both their radios came alive with Nivans’ voice.

“Captain,” he said. “We have a problem. A _seven minutes until the place gets sterilised,_ problem.”

Redfield’s eyes snapped to her.

"Go."

This time, he let her out first.

* * *

“ **T** alk to me,” Chris said halfway out the door, and halfway to out-of-his-fucking-mind.

“Wash got the computers back up and running,” Piers answered, his voice carrying itself calm and collected through the radio. Professional in the face of disaster headed their way. “And now he’s found a breach protocol rigged to flood the place with gas if anything breaks containment. Highly toxic. Highly flammable. It was triggered a few minutes ago, probably when we came in.”

“ _Fuck._ Okay, have the topside team pull back, we’re a minute out.”

They ran, their boots rapping hard against the floor and each step echoing on behind them, as if their own shadows had started chasing them. _Seven minutes_ were enough, and he ran the math in his head. It wouldn’t take them more than five to get clear.

 _Probably._ His mind shifted to _What ifs._ What type of gas? Would they ignite it? If so, what about the blast radius?

Behind them, the Reaper bayed with a hollow, almost metallic sound bounding after them. It scraped sharply down his spine. Tore at his insides. _Begged_ him to come back, and Chris clenched his teeth. Threw himself awkwardly through the narrow gap of the door, and almost knocked into Piers on the other side.

“We got to go, Captain. Like, right about now.”

“I’m not arguing. Wash, detach. Move.”

“Yessir.” Wash yanked a cable from the equipment. Scuttled out the door, tailed by Piers and Sadja— no, not Sadja —she staggered next to him. Fell back, and he was out the door before his mind screeched to a halt and said: _Something's wrong._

He turned. Reached for her, because she’d fallen to the side. Had hit the wall for some reason, her hands at the sides of her head and her mouth open and— the door closed in front of him. Slammed into its metal frame on the other side with a hard, final clack.

Chris stared at the bleak metal. Blinked.

 _No._ “Sadja.”

He stepped left. To the glass. His light dove through. She’d detached herself from the wall, knocked against the door with her fists. Looked to him, her eyes catching the beam of light. Her mouth moved. Spelled his name. He couldn't hear her through the thick glass.  

“Radio— the radio!” He pointed at his earpiece. "Talk to me, can you see a control panel on the other end?" _There isn't one._ He'd checked. He'd fucking checked on the way in earlier—

Her lips turned down in an irritated frown, then babbled on, but he couldn't hear her. _She forgot how the radio works. She can't get a stupid_ radio _to work!_ He jabbed right, frantically trying to point at the wall. "Panel! Look for a _panel._ "

_We have time. A little time. Just need a little time._

Her fist snapped against the glass. She tore the earpiece from her head. Yanked the radio out and bumped it against the glass like she wanted to use it to smash her way free.

“Captain, we need to go— oh _shit_.”

“The door. Get the door open!” Chris flung himself back to the control panel on his side, knocked Piers out of the way who’d already started pouring over it with his brows pinched and fingers dancing over dead buttons.

_No. Not again. Not her, no. Not again._

They tried to find a groove in the door. Their fingers wouldn't catch on anything. He swung back to the window. Slammed the butt of his rifle against it. Once. Twice. A third time with a cry choked halfway up his throat.

After the third knock, he looked down to her. Found her eyes turned up, and her fingers splayed out against the glass. Her other hand jabbed at him. Past him, and her mouth moved. Formed a string of _Oh's_ with her lips. _Oh-oh-oh_ — _Go-Go-_

**’ _Go!_ ’**

The word howled in his head.

_’Leave. Live. Go—‘_

A guttural snarl wrapped around the words. Hard talons clicked on concrete. The air bristled. Smelled of lit matches. Of danger. Mortal danger. Of death coming.

“No! I’m not leaving you here.” He set his hand against the glass. Wanted to tear it all down. Wanted it to crack and splinter and let her _out._ Sadja's fingers trailed his, a distant touch that didn’t connect, with a world of ice between them.

“Piers, the door. Blow the door, we have to—“

“—Captain, we don’t have charges with us. There's no time.” His voice was steady. Distant. Reasonable.

Chris stepped back. Lifted his rifle. Squeezed the trigger. A few rounds impacted, and left barely a scratch. Sadja's shoulders slumped and she shook her head. A brief, final notion, much like the quick, rueful smile she offered him.

 _I'm sorry,_ it said, before her eyes cut to Piers. Stayed there long enough for her chin to dip with a careful nod before she turned with a flick of her shoulders, and vanished into the dark where his light wouldn't reach.

Where he wouldn't reach.

Where he _couldn't_ reach.

Fingers dug into his arm. Pulled. Dragged.

“We need to go, Sir. We need to go _now_.”

She was gone. _Gone._ Chris couldn't think past the ringing in his ears, and the pressure rapping against his ribcage.

"I can't leave her here," he said, the words hollow. Pointless.

And Chris turned. Followed Wash and Piers through the frantic, red haze of light above. Away from her. Through blinding light and past white walls. Up hard stairs. Into a night of crisp air. It burnt his eyes. Went down hot and biting into his throat. Choked him when the ground under his feet bucked and rumbled.

Chris staggered. Caught himself on wet grass, and the world at his heels lit up with hard reds. Windows shattered. Walls bent and moaned. He counted the explosions. Out of habit alone— _one— two— three— four— five—_ hollow _WHUMPS_ that sent shivers through the earth. The treeline they'd been running for shook. Flocks of birds burst into the night.

He'd fallen. Didn't know when. But he propped himself back up, leaned heavy on the rifle. Fire licked at the night. Crawled out from the bottom floor of the villa. And any moment now— any moment she'd come running out a door. Round a corner. She had to. Because he couldn't have left her there. Couldn't have abandoned her. Let her die.

She was more than that.

Was supposed to be.

More.

Chris tried to hold on. Tried to cling to what lay scratching under his heart, but it shattered with the rest of him. Broke off. Left him with nothing but himself. And the echo of a quick smile crumbling into ashes.


	41. Part 7: Dancing in the Grey, Five Stages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which love isn't kind.

**FIVE STAGES**

* * *

  **A** cupboard door smacked shut with a clack, bouncing a frustrated echo through his kitchen. Chris cocked his head towards it. To where Sadja leaned on the tips of her bare toes, her fingers in the shelf over her head. She was a slim and wiry puzzle sticking out of too baggy slacks and a too wide shirt. Nothing on her fit. Nothing ever had. Her hair was too short on one side, while the other half was unevenly cropped. Chris frowned. He could have sworn he’d fixed that, remembered the buzz of the clipper. The hard bone of her skull under his palm as he turned her head and the clipper chewed up her hair. Now it looked all wrong again.

He sighed. Turned back to the smell of heavy spices in front of him. To the sizzling pan and the thing squirming in it.

“I’m not mad at you.” Her words picked at his heart. The thing in the pan twitched. “Stop thinking I’m mad.”

He looked down. Sadja had slipped under his arm. Placed herself between the oven and him. Scrutinised him. Judged him for what he'd done and for what he hadn't. _I'm sorry,_ scratched at his throat, but instead of the words coming out, the memory continued to spool from his mind unhindered. Clear and vivid and absolutely real. He knew it for what it was. A yesterday. A long ago. A figment. But that didn't mean he had it in him to end it.

“What is this?” Chris asked, the pan and oven and his unkind home faded past her curious, honey specked eyes.

“What is what, Redfield?”

He lifted a hand, waved it gently between them, a finger tapping his chest and catching her chin. “This.” _Us._

She shrugged. Quick. Carefree. Shoulders up. Shoulders down. “Anything you’d like it to be.”

Chris’ eyes fell shut. His heart ached with the memory of her answer, painted the quiet, swift smile on her lips and dove after the challenging glint in her eyes. When he opened them again, she’d laid down on a bed of coarse sand, the cool touch of her fingers lightly set against his neck.

There was blood on his hands. Bone cracked with a muffled snap. Wind whipped at him in hard gusts, tore the sand out from under her. Darkness hunkered around them. Lacked stars or moon or reason, and he clung to her in the circle of sweeping light from the helicopter bearing down on them.

“Don’t die,” he told her. Ordered, expecting nothing but obedience. “Don’t.”

The helicopter hovered with its nose dipped forward, its mass set for a sweeping approach. But its rotors wouldn’t move. The whole thing stayed suspended midair, an oversized toy hung from invisible strings.

 _Move,_ he screamed. _God fucking damnit,_ **_move_ ** _! Don’t let her go!_

She was dying, and there wasn’t a thing he could do.

_What is this?_

_Anything you’d like it to be._

Waking didn’t relieve him of clarity. Didn’t give him the opportunity to pretend that he’d open his eyes and turn to find her curled into the blanket by his side. Sadja was still gone. Still dead. A fading scent on sheets he hadn’t had the courage to wash. Which was ridiculous. Childish. Wasn't like she'd had a lot of time to settle in to begin with. And whatever hint of her she might have left, that had passed long ago.

She'd left more marks on him than on his home.   

Chris swung his legs from the bed. He felt heavy. Slow. Keeping his head up was hard work, and he pinched the bridge of his nose trying to squeeze the pounding ache from his skull. As with every other night, the phone on the nightstand blinked at him. More messages. He reached halfway to it, mulled over what he’d read and what he’d answer. His hand fell away. Not yet.

So he got up. Wandered his hallway. Flinched at the bright light in the bathroom when he swiped at the switch, and grimaced at what he found in the mirror. _CLICK_ and the lights went off again, and he was down the hall, down the stairs, and in front of his fridge.

 _"Thirsty again, Redfield?"_ she mocked him.

"Yeah."

* * *

 **D** ay and night hadn't been discouraged by what he'd lost. They rolled on. Sunup. Sundown. It made no difference. Life didn't pause or stall and didn't change. But he dreamed more now than he'd ever had before. Not always while asleep, and not always of death.

He preferred the nightmares.

 **S** ome days were better. Some worse. But mostly he couldn't tell one apart from the other. Claire called, and when she didn't, he found pictures on his phone, reassurances that his sister was okay and alive. It helped. A little. Even if he didn't always know what to say, his mind buzzing with white noise, and all he had to offer an easy, two stroke lie:

:)

 **T** he B.S.A.A had become numbing _work_ between pats on the back and careful condolences, and too much time spent in front of an attentive therapist with her questions and notes and empty platitudes.

 _"You're a terrible liar,"_ she often said, the ghost of her perched on the windowsill at the back of the therapist's office. _"No one believes a word you're saying."_

So he tried harder, because it turned out the whole damn world was _sorry_ , except no one knew what about. Chris didn't give a shit.

* * *

 **P** iers was a constant that hovered at the edge of his days. Like he was waiting for time to rewind, and some resemblance of a better yesterday to come back around. It didn't. It wouldn't. Not for lack of trying, and Chris hated him for the efforts wasted on his behalf. For bringing Jill into it. For that awkward evening stretched between a Friday and a Saturday that almost tore him from his feet.

For believing in him.

He didn't let up, even when Chris flipped the phone around when his name flashed on the display.

 _"Let him love you, you stupid oaf,"_ her memory chided and swiped a warm hand over the back of his head.

* * *

 **O** n a bright, cloudless June day, at 08:10 sharp, Piers rapped his knuckles against the same door that'd welcomed him without question countless times before. Then he waited, his feet shifting on the wooden porch stairs, and his eyes scanning along the house’s front facade. Drawn curtains kept the morning sun out. The window panes could have used a wash. And he’d squeezed four days worth of newspapers and post under his arm, right along with the final report summary of the Italy incident.

“Come on, Captain,” he mumbled and knocked again.

Through most of his life, Piers had prided himself with exceptional patience. As a marksman, he needed it. And as it turned out, it came in equally useful when you wanted to maintain a friendship with Chris Redfield. Not saying it wasn’t stretched thin as hell at this point, but every time he thought _This is it, I’m done,_ he found a little more of it trailing on in a spindly thread. He adjusted the mail under his arm. Peeked at the sealed letters. Considered opening them, for his Captain’s sake, obviously, and jostled himself back together when the lock clicked and the door opened.

Piers plastered on a smile. Squared his shoulders. And kept the smile on best as he could when Chris scowled at him with a hand on the doorframe and the other still on the handle.

“Morning.” _Smile. Smile. Smile._ His mouth was beginning to strain.

Chris _hrrmphed,_ the noise rummaging in his chest, and glanced at his watch. “Morning,” he echoed, his voice scratchy from neglect. A neglect that left marks on the rest of him, in his sunken eyes and the thick beard bunched up around his chin.

 _Great._ Piers snapped his hand around the door. Pulled. “I’m coming in.”

Chris muttered “Yeah. Okay,” and slunk off into the gloom of his home, where the air smelled of beer cans left in the open too long, and of stale cigarette smoke. Piers’ nose scrunched up, and he beelined for the kitchen where he dumped the papers before swinging the curtains aside and propping both windows open. The place was a mess, at least by Chris' standards. A scattered row of beer cans stood lined up around the stove, with a half empty bottle of scotch next to them, and a somewhat straight tower of mugs waited to be washed in the sink.

Frowning, Piers popped one of the bottom cupboards open, found the pile of discarded plastic bags always kept there, shook one out, and swiped the empty cans into it. He tied the bag shut and tossed it into a corner for later disposal.

_Better._

When he turned around, Chris was watching him with a detached sort of mistrust. Quiet. _Broken,_ and Piers hated everything about it. Hated that he didn’t know how to approach the situation, that no one had ever bothered explaining the ins and out of _this_ to him.

There was only one thing he was certain he'd get right, and he latched on to that and kept at it fiercely, because what the fuck else was he supposed to do? Roll over and give up? No.

He'd be a friend. _The_ friend, and one day it'd pay off and they'd laugh about it and—

“Coffee?” he asked. Chris nodded. Or maybe he shrugged. _Doesn’t matter, Sir. You’re getting coffee, whether you like some or not._

The routine gave him room to think, and Chris time to sit by the counter and look gloomy while he sorted a pile of books and loose paper scattered in front of him. _This is going to be hell of awkward, isn’t it?_

“How’s—“ Chris started. Paused. Glanced off to the left, thinking real hard. Or expecting the thin air to present him with whatever he'd forgotten. Piers watched him between fetching ground coffee and grabbing the carafe to fill it with water. Chris sighed. Tried again. “How’s Emma?”

_Yeah. Awkward._

“I don’t know. She kind of left.”

“Oh.” Another pause. “Shit.”

Piers shrugged, watched the water pour, and remembered the fights. First they’d been real quiet and subtle, and he’d had to try real hard to figure them out. Then they’d turned loud and confrontational, until one day he’d come home (too late again), and she’d packed her bags and banged the door shut on the way out. _Why don’t you just marry him?! Or your stupid ass B.S.A.A!_ He winced.

“Eh.” Piers tipped the water into the coffee maker. No need to go into details on the why, though a look back at Chris had him guess he had a good enough idea. Wasn’t like it had ever come easy for them to hold something down. They’d tried, but no one stuck around for long.

And some of them died.

The coffee went in. Probably enough to give them both heart palpitations. “They want us back in Europe in two weeks,” he told the coffee maker. Flicked it on. Let his eyes skip to the arrangement of pill bottles that he’d been trying to ignore. “A babysitting job.”

“Yeah, I got the call yesterday,” Chris said.

“And you accepted?” None of the bottles were opened. He reached for the first one in the row, turned the label forward. Sertralin.

“Yeah.”

“You really think that’s a good idea, Captain?”

Silence. The coffee maker started bubbling. Piers’ chest squeezed with frustration and slowly unfolding anger.

“I thought you’d sit the next one out at least." _Because the last two between now and Italy didn't really go so well, and people are asking questions._ "No one’d think any less of you if you did.” He pointed at the bottles. “And shouldn’t you be taking these?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re _not_ fine, Captain. You haven’t been fine for a long fucking while, and you’re not going to be if you think drinking is going to help, but these won’t.”

He flicked the Sertralin bottle over. Grabbed one of the high chairs and sat in front of the thick browed scowl. Some tiny voice in the back of his mind told him it’d be best if he left this alone. That there was anger boiling behind the weary haze in Chris’ eyes, and that it’d come at him hard if he’d let his guard down. But he’d be a shit friend if he’d back down now.

So he went all in. Threw his cards right out into the open and went for the lowest blow he could possibly come up with.

“This isn’t your fault. Her death? Edonia? Nothing you could have done. Nothing _any_ of us could have done to change how it turned out, and drowning yourself in a bottle isn’t going to make any of it go away.”

“Don’t,” Chris warned. Leaned into the counter with an threatening tilt to his shoulder that made that tiny voice from before yelp and point the other way.

“Oh, I _will._ ”

Chris’ scowl set. Any moment now he’d get up and throw him out. He'd done it before. A few times.

“Listen—“ Piers swallowed. Scraped his fingers along his jeans. “I didn’t come here to have you browbeat me into letting you to ruin your life. But go on and kick me out. Show up for the deployment drunk. Get your contract terminated, because seriously, Captain, do you really think they’ll give you _another_ chance?”

“I’m _fine,_ ” he repeated.

“No. You’re grieving. Have been since Edonia, and you’re absolutely shit at it.”

“I—“ His words tapered off, hitched in his throat. He glanced right, to the papers and books he’d piled there, and Piers realised them to be journals, rather than bound books. The loose sheets held pencil drawings, and far as he remembered, Chris didn’t have a single artistic bone in him.

"Where does _obsessively holding on_ fit in the five stages?" _Sir. With respect, Sir._

Chris' jaw twitched, and Piers figured he'd overstepped. Or over-leapt, really. The anger fizzed out. Piers shook his head, rubbed at the back of his neck in frustration, and he tried to find the purpose that'd brought him here again. His eyes skipped to the report he'd dragged in and buried under newspapers and bills, that inconspicuous white folder with a lot more weight to it than any collection of papers should be allowed to. Then he looked back to the sketches and the journals.

"Sorry, Sir."

Of course he'd keep her stuff. Chris wasn't good at letting things go. And she hadn't left anything else behind. What'd he expect he'd do? Burn them? That wasn't how grief worked. Burying what hurt didn't make it go away. It just made it get into the water or whatever. Talking helped. Supposedly. And they'd been doing nothing _but_ talking to him. Asked him a lot of questions, given him a lot of dotted lines to fill.

 _Oh. I'm an idiot._ They'd probably all been the wrong questions.

Piers slid off the chair. “What was she like?” he asked while he swiped the last two clean mugs from a shelf. They’d been collecting dust at the back.

“Huh?”

“Sadja.” He turned the mugs idly and watched the slow drip of the coffee maker finishing up. _World’s Okayest Brother,_ the first one read. The other was a plain green and horribly chipped. “I never talked to her. We didn’t really get along, right?”

He wanted to regret that the only words he’d ever exchanged with her in earnest had been threats. But she’d been ready to kill him. Would have shot him, and you didn’t forgive and forget that sort of shit easily. If at all.

“No, I guess not,” Chris said, and when Piers turned, he’d stopped looking ready to shove a boot up his ass.

“So, what was she like?”

Chris grunted. _Still awkward._ He filled the mugs. Carried them back to the counter. Sat. Waited.

“Different,” Chris eventually said, hooked a finger into the printed mug’s handle and pulled it to himself. “And she liked coffee.”

Piers blinked.

“First thing she did when I met her was ask me to make coffee. She didn’t know how.” He reached a hand to the papers on his right. Dragged some of them over, and Piers caught the depictions of things plucked right out of the Sci-Fi channel. Or, according to Chris, right from Sadja’s home. He still didn’t know what to think of it all, even with the evidence laid out clear in front of him once too often.

“I thought she was crazy for the longest time. That she was yanking my chain. Pretending. You should have seen the look on her face when I stuffed clothing into the washing machine and turned it on. Like I'm walking on water." He paused. "Elevators terrified her. Escalators were _fun._ Music absolutely got her going, and it drove me up the fucking wall.” His lips twitched, and a subtle crease around his eyes betrayed an involuntary smile. “Almost every morning I thought about leaving her at the next stop. Drive right off. Or grab her money and the car and get out while she was sleeping. But I didn't. I couldn’t. Took me way too long to figure out why.”

He picked up the coffee. Frowned at it, then nodded like he approved of the first sip.

“Why?”

“Because she saved my life, Piers. Every time she turned up the radio, or asked me a stupid question, I stopped thinking about the next tree on the road. Or of the gun in the trunk—“ Piers caught his tongue between his teeth. “—or of how fucking tired I was. And she never quit, not once. While I treated her like shit, she just shrugged it off and _let me._ ” The miserable smile died a quick death, and Chris scoffed down at his mug. He pushed the papers out of the way again, and with a heavy sigh, looked to him.

"You had that in common."

Piers smiled, and they sat in silence for a few contemplative sips of surprisingly good coffee.

“She wasn’t a saint," Chris said before the hush wore out its welcome. "Maybe she wasn’t even a very good person. She was a thief. A liar. But by the end she was _my_ liar.”

_Oh man._

More silence. A car drove by outside. A dog barked. The world turned on and on and on and on.

“Did you— uh—“

Chris looked to him. Quirked a brow with a hint of bitter amusement. “Did we have sex? Yes. Did I love her? I don’t know. Maybe?” He shook his head. “I know her want her back though. So I can figure it out. And then tell her once I do."

Something heavy settled in his gut, and Piers’ eyes wandered back to the report. He’d read it. Front to back. Back to front. Had debated, heavily, if he should bring it, because if there was a thing worse than grief, it was false hope.

“I’m pretty sure she knew already.”

Chris coughed up a short lived laugh. “Yeah, ‘course she would. Wish she’d told me though.”

With his heart a little too close to his throat for any reasonable comfort, Piers dug the laminated folder from the pile. He flipped it open, paged through the first half to the bit he’d earmarked. Turned the whole thing around with a twist of his wrist, and pushed it towards Chris.

“They finished digging up the section of the lab she was in.”

Chris’ eyes stayed on him for a while. Pleading. _Horrified._ “I don’t need to see this.”

“It’s not an autopsy. They didn’t find her.”

The horror stalled. Tilted. “What?”

“In your report, you listed a room with four dead bodies. Human.”

“Sare,” Chris corrected.

“Sare. Whatever. Four _people,_ three live dogs, two dead. And a… what did you call it?”

“Reaper.”

“Reaper. Okay. Same thing as the two that you left behind in Italy, right?”

“Right.”

“Look—“ He tapped a finger against a diagram marked with red pen where he’d circled the relevant sections. “—they dug up almost everything, including a few corpses in adjacent rooms. _Human_ corpses. But they didn’t find a second female Sare, and they didn’t find the Reaper. Now… I don’t know anything about your girlfriend, except that she tried to kill me, and that’s not something I am going to let go, by the way, but…”

Chris dragged the report towards him. “She might have made it out? How?” His voice was steady and calm, lacking any of the excitement he’d have expected. Healthy skepticism, Piers figured. Not quite willing to take the leap, because he didn’t know how deep the water on the other end might be. Smart. And also a little sad.

“Magic? Miracles? I don’t know, Captain. But there’s a chance she’s alive, so you may want to get to figuring this out for when— _if_ —we find her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I challenged myself to summarise almost two months of progressing grief into one chapter, without having to start up another sub plot to fill multiple chapters with. Any feedback on how this worked would be greatly appreciated :)


	42. Part 8: China, The Nightingale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Intermissions chapter incoming! Duck and cover! Or read on if you want to know what Sadja has been up to while Redfield grieved for her. And if you are curious just what happened that night on the beach.

**THE NIGHTINGALE**

* * *

  **P** ain. Absolute and sudden.

_”She’s waking up.”_

_”Well, don’t let her. You remember what happened last time?”_

She was made of it, every drop of her blood alive with agony. And Sadja fell through the pain. Fell _up_ — and up and up— towards bright light and ghastly faces swimming against a backdrop of pure white.

_”Look at those numbers— I thought she can’t—?”_

_”She shouldn’t, now do_ something _or we'll be—”_

Her fingers curled. Softness bunched up against them. The air smelled wrong. Her throat— she couldn’t breathe— couldn’t draw in air. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t—

A weight crashed against her.

_”I’m trying…“_

_Help?_

Numbness nipped at her veins. Spread quick. Spread far. And as the world grew heavy, Sadja knew darkness again.

* * *

 **H** arsh nothing kept her company.  

_Am I dead?_

The beast growled in its cage.

_Bugger._

Nothing shrugged and she drifted on its shoulders with a symphony of silence all around.

* * *

 _’ **W** hat is this?’ _ the Furnace asked. He was a wildfire of searing heat. Robbed her of her breath, but not her words.  

_’What is what, Redfield?’_

_’This.'_ A vague, soft gesture. A tap at her chin.

 _’Anything you’d like it to be.'_ Even in dreams she didn't have a better answer to give.

* * *

 **A** nd didn't know how to spell out disappointment.

* * *

_” **T** hose results are as good as they’ll ever get. Cad’his are complicated.” _

_”We’re done then?”_

Her ears buzzed. Her heart squeezed erratically in her chest.

_”Good as.”_

_”What about her?”_

She drifted through a lull. A pause. Hung on to its edges in a frenzy.

_”Vil Marrk wants her dead.”_

_”So, why isn’t she?”_

_”The Nighti—_ ”

* * *

 **F** ire.

A hurried press against cold glass and a pull on a withered soul thrashing in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” she told the Reaper convulsing behind the pane, its jaws wide open in a tormented howl.

The glass cracked. Fell apart with muted pops. She did too. Bit by bit. Shattered. Noise rushed to envelop her, the pitched roar of greedy flames. Her lungs burnt. She burnt. They burnt. Reaper and her and the beast with its leash stretched thin. Until the world rent open. And she tumbled, a piece of driftwood ripped away by unsteady currents.

* * *

 **P** ins and needles coaxed her awake. It was a jerky sort of coming up from the dull nothing of tightly packed dreams, none of which made any bloody sense, and what Sadja found with her senses coming alive, was discomfort. Swallowing hurt. Her arms ached, the skin on them too tight. And there was an itch to her right side that spread far too wide and went far too deep. When she tried to open her eyes, she found murky dark and cloth catching on her lashes, a scratchy fabric tightly drawn over the bridge of her nose and biting at the ridge of her cheekbones.

That worried her, albeit only briefly. With her mind still in disarray, Sadja found it difficult to fathom panic or alarm. They were a concept better served for future her, one she allowed herself a moment to catch up with. And then another and another, and the first coherent thought that formed was of how she was thoroughly done with coming to like this. It was getting old, the whole deal of squeezing thoughts from her mind like mud from a rag. Slow and sticky. Rusted gears laboured as she tried to think through the haze. Caught on bits and pieces of yesterdays she couldn’t quite count. On drifting through heavy darkness, and breaking the surface to catch glimpses of a blinding world.

A little further back, where the mud turned to thick sludge, she remembered fire and an acrid taste in the air. She’d been frantic, she remembered, and her heart kicked with phantom panic. Because she’d thought she’d die.

Another memory, of how she'd always thought she'd make a fabulous torch if we'd be burnt to cinders. Well, bugger that. She'd changed her mind when faced with the flames, changed it right bloody quick.

“About time,” a voice said. A woman’s. Close. Very close. But it was a good enough thing to focus on. Curious too, because she thought she recognised it. The elegance of it, like chilled mountain water flowing over smoothened rock down a narrow brook carving its way through thick, lush green.

She’d heard it before. More often than she’d have liked.

The Nightingale. _Gale._

 _No-nono-_ Sadja bucked. Twisted. Shrunk against the hard mattress under her, and when Gale cooed above her, Sadja’s heart stalled with terror.

“Stop fretting,” Gale said. A touch of cool fingers landed below her elbow. Prickled like droplets of mountain water that moved up along the length of her arm. Over her shoulder. Pitter-pattered against her cheek. And with a soft tug, the cloth blinding her fell away, and Sadja was left staring wide eyed and frozen.

First, all she saw was light. Lots of it and then some. Until the slender shape of Gale swum into focus. She wore red. Always had and likely always would. A dark tone, rich as wine. Long, pitch black hair cascaded in soft waves around angular features, framed her face in almost perfect symmetry.

“You’ve fallen far from your nest, with your feathers all bent.” Gale smiled. A red lipped, full smile underneath clear, emerald eyes. Friendly. _Loving,_ and Sadja felt bile rise in her throat. “I’m here to help, Fledgling, here to make things better.”

Sadja squirmed. Looked left and right, frantic. Her arms were bound, held down by clamps of smokey grey voidmite anchored to the bed. The metal dug deep, and it’d had enough time to leave ugly, red marks to sit between the white bevels of her scars. And there was something wrong with her right arm, Sadja knew, but she was too busy trying to bolt from the Nightingale hovering over her to care.

Except there wasn’t anywhere to go. Not even for her soul, which jittered uselessly as she tried to shy away from Gale’s thrumming presence. But the voidmite kept her bound, cut her off from even the faintest touch of Elaya's hem.

Sadja swallowed hard, which hurt like a bitch, and stared at the age old madwoman with words impossible to come by.

“I saved you,” Gale said. She smoothed her dress, slender fingers caressing the pretty silk, and sat at the edge of the bed. “A little gratitude wouldn’t be amiss, don’t you think?”

With a nod to the room around them, Gale drew her attention to the plain white walls and the harsh light glaring down from the ceiling. It was all rather clinical. And a little familiar.

 _Redfield._ Sadja’s eyes tickled and she squinted, turned her thoughts to a memory of him slamming his fist against an unyielding pane of glass. _I sent him out. Did he make it?_

He’d had to.

Gale’s smile slanted up.

“You were drifting,” she said. “For a handful of turns all you did was hang from Elaya’s hem like a dead leaf. Withering like one too. Be glad I found you and called you here.”

Another swallow. More words that wouldn’t come. _Why? Where am I? What happened? Elaya please, he’s got to be okay…_

“You must have been terribly desperate to slip into the Hem like you did. Tetherless, without a Cataract for a guide. Why, I’m torn between calling you an idiot and commending your tenacity. Though it was a bit of a close call, wasn’t it? They’ve had to work hard to keep you from dying, to mend you.”

Sadja’s brows furrowed. _What?_ And when Gale indicated her right side with a subtle nod, she followed the glance.

_Crap._

Her arm was a mess. Her shoulder too, least the bit she could see hiding under a plain white shirt. The skin was broken and patchy. Melted, almost, and with a jolt she remembered the flames. How they’d caught up with her. How they’d wrapped around her and how she’d screamed until they’d sucked the air from her lungs. She’d burnt alive. Least until the rift had cracked open and she’d been swept away and found refuge in a place she didn't belong.

“You _know_ you’d have died, no?”

Sadja nodded. Of course. There’d been no-where for her to go. It’d been a last ditch effort, a horrible draw and some easily failed leap of faith.

“How’d you do it anyway?”

A shrug. A clench of the jaw. Because she didn’t quite know.

“Let me guess.” Gale turned her eyes up to the ceiling, the smile still on her lips.

In profile, she looked even more regal. Her nose straight and _just_ right, her cheekbones high and gentle.

“You begged first, but your Cataract wouldn’t listen.”

Truth.

“Then you borrowed a trick from Sinvik’s book. Tore the soul from the Reaper. Broke it open. Made yourself a neat little tear and hopped through.”

She looked back to her, quirked a delicate, slim brow. “Am I right?”

Swallow.

“I am. You surprise me, Fledgling. I didn’t think you’d had it in you. It must have hurt something fierce.”

No need to nod.

“Where did you think you’d go from there?”

Sadja exhaled, tested her voice again, and managed a scratchy: “I don’t know.”

Gale’s smile brightened. “She speaks.”

“What— what do you want?”

With furrowed brows, Gale scoffed. “You're bad mannered. If I hadn’t heard your call for help, you’d have wasted away outside the palms within a day. At best.”

“I wasn’t calling for you.”

This time Gale shrugged. It was a slow, careful motion. Elegant, like the rest of her. “And yet I listened.”

“And you wouldn’t have bothered if you didn’t want something. Since I’m still alive… what is it? And where the bloody Hell am I?”

Frustrated, and with fear still simmering under the growing impatience and lingering pain, Sadja tried to sit. The voidmite shackles clicked and chimed, barely gave her room to shift her back. _Silly._ She’d forgotten. On purpose.

“You’re in one of Vil Marrk’s toy boxes in this quaint little world. He’s been invited to share, you know. Made friends. And he’s come to me for help to catch himself a Cad’his to add to his collection.”

“What’s in it for you?”

“You.” Gale shrugged again. “Well, not _you_ , you. I wanted that piece of yours that you’ve locked away. He could have what’d be left, though granted that wasn't going to be much. Oh!" She beamed, clapped her hands together. The noise was soft and collected, not the quick and sharp snap of skin on skin. "You should have _seen_ how much trouble it's been causing while you slept. It was a joy to watch.”

Sadja bristled, grazed her lips with her teeth, and tried to find the beast in its cage. But the voidmite stood in the way. Numbed her soul. It was all rather quiet out there. And inside, as if the beast had gone for a slumber, tucked its snout under its tail and declared itself out of order. It was still here though. She could tell. So Sadja tried herself at staring at Gale. Make a show of defiance, whatever good that might do. Three heartbeats in, and a burst of fear got her eyes to fix on a patch of white on the wall instead.

Gale tilted her head, much like a bird of prey might. Curious and attentive and ready to swoop by for the kill. She leaned in and Sadja flinched back, even as strands of silken black hair whispered against her shoulder.

“But it’s useless now, that beast of yours. Neutered. No longer a threat to your darling sister-wife.” She hummed. The noise was gentle and beautiful, promising comfort. “No longer of any use to me, at any rate. So you get to keep it. Lovely, no?”

When she set back up, Sadja released a breath she hadn’t been aware she’d been holding. And somehow scraped up enough courage to open her gob again, dry lips and heavy tongue and all. “I suppose that means vil Marrk gets the lot of me then?”

Another smile bloomed on Gale’s lips. “Oh he would like that, would he not?” She leaned further in, brushed the silken red fabric of her dress over the plain white of what Sadja had been wrapped in. A strong scent of mountain flowers teased her. Home. She smelled of _home._

“He wants to end you. But that’s unnecessary, isn’t it? And what if he fails and you get him instead? That’d be a shame, because he’s got more work to do for me. He’s _clever,_ you know? Really clever.” There was a pinch on her arm, and Sadja looked to where Gale had her fingers hooked around a link of the voidmite shackles. “All the hate he’s got, it’s driven him to desperate genius. This? What he’s doing here? What he’ll bring back home? I can’t say I’m not a little impressed.”

Gale’s arm strained briefly. The shackles clicked. Snapped. Like they’d been made of soggy paper. Sadja frowned. _Huh?_

“And you’ll let him?” she asked while she fought the urge to lift her arm and push Gale away. But she knew better. “You’ll let him attack the Sare? Turn them against everyone? They’re _your_ people too.”

“You have it all wrong, Fledgling.” The mountain flowers lingered on, even as Gale sat up and regarded her with the look of a mother about to scold an unruly child. “ _He_ has got it all wrong. What he’s giving me, and what he thinks he has? Yes, he’s clever, but I’m _cleverer._ ”

Sadja snorted.

“He thinks he’ll sweep Trero clean of Sare. I rather think I’ll do the opposite. Imagine if we were to mark them all. If the Ward couldn’t tell us apart any more, if we’d all be equal. Think what we could do if we’d continue what the Benefactors did all those thousands upon thousands of years ago.”

Sadja’s jaw clenched. _You’re—_ A cold shiver climbed her spine. Settled at the base of her skull and rummaged about like tiny claws scraping at bone.

“Insane? Yes, so your dear sister-wife claims. I’m not about to argue, she’s quite right.”

_Sod off and get out of my head._

Gale smirked before she looked across the room and to a closed, plain door that might as well have been part of the wall.

“He’ll return soon. I’d suggest you’re gone by then.”

“I don’t understand, why are you doing this? Why are you _helping_ me? We’re—“

“Enemies? You’ve got that wrong too.”

“You tried to kill me.” She counted. “Trice.”

“Don’t blame me. You made yourself an inconvenience.”

“What changed?”

“My mind, mostly. And you.”

Sadja frowned. “That doesn't mean Sinvik won't come after you, and that I won't be there to help her." _If I ever make it home._

"Of course, I wouldn't have it any other way. But _you_ have Vil Marrk to worry about first."

"Why don't you stop him yourself? If you don't want him to—"

"Tsk. Not my place. Yours."

 _Scrape-Scrape_ the claws went and Gale's brows quirked up. "Go on then," she said. "Ask the question."

Sadja gawped. "What?"

“You're _dying_ to know what happened to you. Why the Wasting didn’t kill you. It did, by the by. It killed you.”

“It did a shoddy job at it.” Her eyes were dry and scratched in their sockets when she made an effort to roll them.

“Hardly. If the Pariah hadn’t trapped you, and your _beast_ not dug its claws in, you’d long gone to sit in Elaya’s hall. Think she’d have judged you kindly? I don’t, because you’re one naughty little thing, aren’t you?”

_Bite me._

Another curl of Gale's lips. And a tug against her insides that came with a titter of mischief. “I see why she loves you. You’re feisty.” Her head tilted, the bird of prey come back around to study the mouse in her little corner. “You remind me of her. Least of the days when she was young and— well— young. More you, less her. It’s a shame she’s had to grow up, and it’s a shame you’ve got to do the same one day.”

Gale stood. Brushed the wrinkles from her dress.

“Run along now. Do what it is you Keepers do.” She lifted her arm in a dismissive gesture, fingers dancing in the air. “There’s a madness to stop for you still, made worse by Vil Marrk’s meddling. And don’t forget him. He’s yours to bring to fall someday, though you’ve got a lot to learn before then.”

Sadja’s heart hammered against the base of her throat. "Gale?"

She paused mid-turn. "Yes, child?"

"That… that thing. In me. Can you… ah…"

"Take it? No. Not without killing you. And whyever would you want me to? You're stronger with it than without."

"It's trouble."

"Less now than before, no?" Gale smiled, her eyes alight with amusement. “It has a master now. Knowing or not, you've bound yourself to the man who's brought you back. And if I'm not mistaken, he’s come to reclaim what he's misplaced.”

With a bone jolting clank, the lights died, and when Sadja's eyes adjusted to the gloom, the Nightingale was gone.


	43. Home is where-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the world watches itself fall apart, and two lost souls look for home in the smouldering cinders.

**HOME IS WHERE-**

* * *

**T** all Oaks, New England, died that night; more than seventy thousand people gone in the blink of an eye. Life was cheap like that, peddled for pocket change by everyone but those who'd have to pay the actual price. Chris watched the city go up in blaze of red, watched the death of  _ too many _ through a small view screen worked into the side panelling of their troop transport plane. Watched in silence, with grief and anger weighing him down.

There'd been chatter in his ear through most of the flight, a constant stream of updates on how the world was watching itself fall apart on the ground, and the nervous quips of his soldiers filling the seats around him. But not any more. It'd become quiet when the bombs had fallen back home. Real quiet.

Most of the men and women in here had joined the B.S.A.A fairly recently, had been called to it by an ever growing need for people to stand against the persistent threat of bioterrorism. And some of them might have sat at home back in 1998, on the 1st of October, and watched Racoon city burn just like Tall Oaks did now. Him? He'd missed that one. Had been too busy chasing those ultimately responsible. In 2004, he'd watched Terragrigia fall, the "Floating City" that'd been meant to make history as a technological marvel, now reduced to a bloody version of just that. It'd be remembered, alright. Just not for what it'd been built for.

Chris  thought about Racoon now. Of course he did, how couldn't he? Thought about a lot of things, really, while he sat with his eyes turned to the screen that flickered red, until even that faded and someone decided to show them they didn't have much time left before they'd touch down in China. 

His fingers pumped idly, opened and closed as they rested on his knees, and his mind ran on ahead. They'd land. Disembark. Swap to a heli already waiting for them on the airfield, and take off again. Because somewhere out there, right at the outskirts of Waiyip, stood a compound full of Neo Umbrella's secrets. 

A compound they'd found thanks to Sadja. Thanks to her sniffing through a binder of documents over  _ so-so  _ coffee. Thanks to her sending herself to her death. 

Chris pinched the bridge of his nose. Squeezed. No. She wasn't dead. His eyes cut to his gear belt, the ammo pouches lining it, and the scarf he'd secured to it. It was a light ochre colour, with a nonsensical pattern in red woven into it. His hand fell to the cloth, fingers curling into that little piece of her she'd left behind. 

_ You're not dead,  _ he thought. "I'll find you."  

"Huh?" Piers shifted in his seat next to him. "What's that, Captain?" Hazel eyes flicked to the scarf, or  _ barr  _ whatever he ought to call it, before Piers gave a careful nod, as if to say  _ Gotcha.  _

"Yeah. Don't worry, Captain. We'll find her."

And that helped. Chris swallowed and nodded and went back to watching the minutes tick away until the wheels would touch down.  

* * *

**W** hen the lights went, and the Nightingale with them, Sadja scrambled to get the last set of voidmite shackles off. It wasn't easy. Unlike Gale, Sadja couldn't snap them in two halves and call it a day. She strained and she bucked and she pulled and she dragged, until both her and the whole bloody bed toppled to the floor. 

"Crap," she wheezed, but at least the fitting had snapped and freed her arm,  and with the last of the voidmite gone, the world felt a lot more... whole. And under a great deal of distress. Sadja ducked behind her gates, laid herself out on the cold floor for a little while, and stared into the dark while she breathed the tension from her chest. Or tried to, anyway. She wasn't really getting far, what with a lot of nonsense words flitting around in her skull and telling her she'd gone and had herself royally fucked. The noise didn't help, the sudden distant  _ crack-rat-tat-crack  _ of firearms. 

Because what else would Redfield bring along? Subtlety? 

_ Mhm. Sure.  _ He was about as subtle as the mess in her head. 

Vil Marrk. The Nightingale. Some Furnace bound to her— or her to him— and she should have  _ known.  _ Which maybe she had. She'd guessed, at any rate. Sort of. Kind of.  _ Poppycock.  _ This was going to complicate things, and she'd have to have a real long sit down and a good think about all of this. 

Later.  _ Once we're out of here.  _ __

And like most things, that was easier said than done. Her limbs felt brittle. Weak. Her stomach empty, though she didn't feel overly hungry. Just— exhausted from too much sleep? As if she'd gone into some sort of deep winter slumber and was halfway through shaking it. 

So she sat up and took stock of herself, just to make sure everything was still where she'd left it. And it was. Mostly. There were marks on her arms though, other than old scars and the ugly marred skin where she'd been burnt. They were tiny and round and she figured they'd stuck her with needles. Lots of them. Wincing, Sadja pulled herself together and climbed to her feet. Barefooted and shivering, she padded through the dark, and with a sinking feeling in her gut, moved slowly from her room and  _ towards  _ the distant sound of gunfire from the depth of the alien labyrinth around her. 

Not because she'd lost her mind. If she'd had any left to lose, anyway. But because out there, somewhere _ ,  _ raged a fire. Heavy and familiar; the promise of home past cold steel and glass. She staggered into its direction. Forward—forward—forward, until she reached a junction. Light danced through it. Two thin beams. Footfalls followed them. Quick ones. 

_ Not them,  _ she thought. Turned tail a heart beat too late as the guns belonging with the lights came around the corner. They didn't even bother warning her. Just opened up with a loud staccato of deafening cracks, and chased her through a door. Glass shattered in her wake, bullets ripping into the panes lining the wall, and came down all around her in a sharp edged shower. She scrambled through anyway. Had to. Shards cut into the sole of her right foot, and she slipped on her own blood and went down next to a counter running through the center of the room. Sliding forward on knees and elbows, both of which smarted, she dove around the corner, the  _ TWHUMP THWUMP  _ of the counter shuddering under the impact of more bullets following her. And Sadja kept going, stayed low as she hurried to the other end, and went around that corner in time for one of the armed men rounding it with his firearm ready to mow her down. 

Well.  _ Man  _ was a little generous. She'd felt already how there'd been something off about them, something not sitting right. And she remembered Edonia. The J'avo, as Redfield had educated her later on. Ugly bastards, the lot of them, and this one wasn't any different with his face put together from broken skin and bulging meat. She slammed into him, caught the rifle in her hands, and it went off to spit at empty air. Her ears rung. With a hard twist, and a scream out past gritted teeth, Sadja yanked his arm down, and his friend caught the trailing end of not so friendly fire. 

_ One down.  _

Number two followed quickly, had his head get comfortable with the edge of the counter, and didn't bother getting up again. 

She looked down at him, her hands on her knees and her chest heaving. At any other day this wouldn't have winded her. But today wasn't any other day, was it? Today was pretty damn shit. Her body was still sluggishly catching up on the whole being awake and about deal, lagged behind like a lame donkey. And it hurt in places that she'd been lying still on for too long, and didn't altogether agree with all the strain she decided to put on it.

Like how she'd cut herself open and bled all over the place. Sighing, Sadja glanced to the dead J'avo's boots, and then on to his friend with his feet sticking out from where he'd fallen the counter. 

Of course they both had to be too big for her.

"Just— just great. Fantastic. Really."

She hunkered down, started tearing at the dead man, and wondered if she ought to have asked the Nightingale if she'd been in the market for a barefooted pet.

* * *

**T** he compound was vast— and much better protected than the Italy facility had been. The moment they'd breached the perimeter, the place had come alive as if they'd kicked a hornets nest. And every damn one of the damn fuckers spilling from said nest came equipped with automatic assault rifles. 

But Chris had expected resistance. Had counted on it, practically  _ hoped  _ for it, because resistance meant activity, and activity was better than another set of empty labs and another way to spell  _ too late.  _

So he led his team forward and through. At first he thought he was following some blueprint he'd memorised and laid a neat plan out on, and maybe for a short while he did. But eventually the calls he made, the left and the right, were based on nothing but a tight squeeze to his heart. A tug of something familiar and wild and  _ home,  _ and he followed it without much thought. 

* * *

**H** e was closer, she could tell. Still too far to hear her if she'd decided to call for him, even if she'd screamed at the top of her lungs, but  _ closer.  _ Sadja pushed on, moved from one hall to the next, the thickest shadows in them her friends that kept her from the eyes of the J'avo scurrying about like ants. She got turned around a few times. Found dead ends. Frustration. And bloody hell, her foot hurt. She'd wrapped cloth around her feet, fashioned crude shoes from a dead man's shirt, and still her right foot bit back with every step. At least the pain had started to fade a little, and it'd be gone soon, but then again maybe it ought to stick around long enough for her to reach Redfield, so she could limp up to him and have him feel all sorry for her.

She'd also put on one of the J'avo's jackets, and the irony of that wasn't altogether lost on her. It was funny, really. In Edonia, she'd run from him. Here, wherever  _ here  _ was, she'd much rather run  _ to  _ him, and maybe that's what she should have done from the start. Except a Shielding girl hardly ever did what she ought to do. And hardly ever got what she wanted, and Sadja wasn't about to be an exception, even if she wasn't Shielding by blood. 

The discord running rampant around her was going to be her doom. It made it difficult to tell apart a distant threat from one close by, and so she ran herself head first into trouble at the top of a flight of stairs she'd been climbing. Up here, the world had been transformed from clinical, neat floors and white walls, to dark gold and rich reds. There was a little light up here too. Not much, but enough for her to see the gun pointed at her head after she rounded the corner. 

This one was shorter, and not attached to a J'avo, but a man with about as much inclination to shoot her as any of them. He stood very close to her though, and Sadja dropped herself to the ground and let her momentum carry her a little further. She swiped at his legs. He stepped around her.  _ Crap.  _ Readjusted his aim— and bullets whizzed past them both to rip into the plaster and the floor.

"Shit!" the man spat and momentarily forgot about her as he ducked and slid out of the hallway and into a room dark room.

Someone moved behind him. A girl much shorter than him, and with a mop of light, yellow hair. "Jake!" she cried from the room, and Sadja figured she might as well join them in there before she had herself chewed up by gunfire. 

He disagreed. Of course he did. 

The moment she dove after him, he rounded on her, and she barely managed to duck under his first swing. Then she danced out of the way of another. And another, and oh boy was he quick. With her body still firing on a delay, it didn't take long before he landed one against the side of her head. The world tumbled a little, went uncomfortably dark for a beat of her heart, and then rushed back just in time for her to catch herself on a table and to twist out of the way of another hard fist. 

She thought the next one might have gotten her too, but the girl came in-between them and, quite literally, hung herself from one of his arms in an attempt to stop him from having another swing.

"Jake, stop!"

"She—" the Jake character started and threw the girl a frustrated glare. He was a tower of a man, maybe even taller than Redfield, but no-where near as broad in his shoulders. Short, red tinged hair clung to a sharp angled face, and a deep scar ran down the length of his left cheek. And Sadja had time to stare at all of that, because he still hovered over her threateningly with the girl trying to pull him away. 

"I've seen her in here. She's been locked up just like us, she's not a threat. And we have bigger problems right now, come on!"

The bigger problems were almost at their door, it seemed, and there were a lot of them judging by the sound of their boots rapping against marble. 

Sadja wondered if hiding under the bloody table would do her any good, and regretted ever having rushed up those stairs. Maybe she should have kept going straight instead? Or taken that stupid, moving box thing? < _ Hindsight, > _ the beast grumbled, and she wanted to sock it on its proverbial snout for being fucking useless. 

Then a hand grabbed her arm and stopped her musing on how long a chair would stand in a fight against firearms. The girl was pulling her off the table. She was a strong thing, that one, and persistent _.  _

"They'll be here any second, come with us," she said. Pulled again. 

"Sherry, we don't have time for this," Jake warned, though what she figured he wanted to say was  _ No way, leave her here.  _

But  _ Sherry  _ wasn't about to give up. "He's right, we don't. There are too many to fight our way back out that way, and they'll catch you if you stay here." 

She had a point. 

Sadja's legs moved out of their own accord at first, as if they agreed with the invitation while she tried hard not to, because she  _ couldn't.  _ She had to keep going. Had to. Somehow. Except she didn't know how or where, and feared she'd get herself shot to pieces before she figured any of that out. So she fell in after them. Dashed out the other end of the room and away from where she'd needed to be.

* * *

**T** hey found an upturned bed in a room fitted with enough lab equipment to run ice through his veins. Broken shackles hung from mounts on the bed, and the dusty black of the metal was just out of place enough to tell him that she'd been here.

Chris backed away. Felt something snap where it'd stretched taut before, a little like back in Italy when the facility had gone up in flames. And much like back then, he found very little past anger remaining. Quick and hard and blind. 

With no-where else to go, the anger pressed out. Chris swung at a cabinet, his hand balled into a fist. The mental bent and shuddered and bits and pieces inside and out fell and broke with muffled pops. "God  _ damnit! _ "

He knew they were all looking at him, but he didn't find enough reason to care. He'd wanted a break.  _ One  _ of them. Just one. Something else than ashes and something else than death.

_ For fucking  _ once— 

"We'll find her," Piers said from outside the familiar haze, and Chris wanted nothing more than to believe him.

Nodding, he grabbed on to the tail end of the anger, and let it pull him back to his feet. There was work to do.

* * *

**R** ock. Hard place. That expression was universal, Sadja had found out. A lot was, really. You couldn't spit into any direction in any world without finding similarities that bled through and made themselves at home wherever they so pleased.

Like the aforementioned rock and sufficiently tough surface. The threat of death after she'd slipped from vil Marrks shackles on one end, and her pulling away from Redfield still  _ somewhere  _ in that awful place she'd slept way too long in on the other.

Pulling away fast, too.

They'd borrowed a ride. A boxy metal beastie without a roof, and the Jake character was driving it down a good as empty, dark road that seemed to go on forever as it led them deeper and deeper into a city so vast, Sadja couldn't see the end of it no matter where she looked. He was a very focused driver, and he carried enough discord with him that Sadja would have liked to sit a little further away from him, even if she'd already tucked herself into the farthest backseat corner of the car-thing. 

But the turmoil bubbling around him quickly faded to unimportance. The further away they got, the harder it was to lock out the nauseating panic that sent Elaya's hem into a frenzy around her. There was so  _ much  _ of it. She'd bolted her gates already, and still she felt it clear as day, and it really didn't help her with thinking. 

Fear. Distress. Agony. Confusion. They slammed into her like a river swollen with hard rain, made the thought of voidmite shackles almost appealing. 

"What's your name?" the girl asked. "Oh. Do you speak English? This'll be embarrassing if you don't—"

Sadja looked away from the city flying past. Some of it was on fire, she'd noticed. A lot of it, actually, the forest of its lights under the night sky marred by the ugly bloom of hungry flames. The air smelled horrid, clogged her nose with rancid, sharp smoke. 

"I'm Sherry," she added and leaned awkwardly around to offer her a hand. In the driver's seat, Jake made a noise that sounded an awful lot like a growl.

She shook the offered hand. "Sadja."

Sherry had a firm grip. Warm and welcoming, much like her smile. 

"Thank you. For back there— the not killing me part and the letting me come with you, but I really got to ask: Where the bloody Hell  _ am  _ I?"

* * *

" **W** here are you—" 

Chris turned away from the monitors. Away from pictures and data scrolling by that told him more about what Sadja had been through in the past month, than he'd ever wanted to know. They'd found footage of her in a small, empty room. Pacing. Raving. He'd recognised that posture, even with how thickly she'd had her right side bandaged up. That wild look in in her eyes as she flashed hatred at the cameras hadn't been difficult to place. She'd not really been herself, not all the while. 

And maybe that had been for the better. By the time he'd gone through the first quarter of the recordings, Chris almost lost the last meal he'd had, even if he couldn't quite remember what that had been.

A part of him wanted to continue sifting through the records. Add more fuel to the fire already burning in his gut, and then point it all— point it all where? 

He growled with frustration and paced out of the room to find Piers waiting for him, his rifle tucked under his chest and a grim purpose to his pinched brows.

"Sir. The techs are on their way as requested, ETA maybe five minutes. They'll take this place apart. I— I have birds in the air and scanning the area as well, and if she's still in the vicinity they might pick up a visual."

Chris blinked. The anger tripped a little and lurched back to its feet with a little more caution.

"HQ wants to know if you'll lead the extraction here or—"

"No." The answer came quick. He'd sat around idle long enough. And Sadja was out there, somewhere, even if he didn't rightfully know where any more. Though she wasn't about to wander back here, he figured that much, even if he didn't quite know how. "Anything new on Wong?"

Piers nodded. "She's been sighted in the city, yes."

"Good." The anger flared happily. "Let's finish this."

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I contemplated a lot of possible routes for this- on where to put Sadja. For familiarises sake, I decided to guide the story back on its rails though, but I won't be spending a lot of time on Jake or Sherry, or Leon and Helena. I hope it doesn't feel too rushed.


	44. Mh.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Redfield chases a ghost across Waiyip, and Sadja decides she really doesn't like China.

_**Mh.** _

* * *

**T** hey moved through a never ending forest, thought instead of wood and earth, it was made of steel and concrete, with wires for branches and colourful signs for leaves. The signs were glaringly bright and many had words and symbols on them that Sadja couldn't make any sense of, even if she'd tried to. To be fair, she couldn't make sense of much at all. For one, she'd never seen a city that tall or that wide. Let alone so unfathomably deep to have her think she'd drown and to reminded her of the day her voidmite shackles had come off. She'd been lost in the whisper of souls for weeks, and good as helpless against the barrage of Elaya's hem wanting to tear her apart. But back home, souls shied away from her out of instinct alone at least, while here, they were careless. And numerous. There were so damn many of them, they turned her world into a thick maelstrom made of heedless panic.

Every lash of it made her head hurt a little more, and soon it'd all be pain and very little else.

Though at least she'd found trousers. And shoes. No more padding down the streets with cloth wrapped around her feet, but in a pair of somewhat fitting pair of what Redfield had once called _sneakers._ Which squeaked. Fat amount of sneaking she'd be doing in them…

At least her two new companions, Sherry and Jake, were decent enough company, all things considered. Even if they were a bit of an odd pair. And different, oh so very different, as if someone had made an effort to shape them from incompatible casts before throwing them into the world side by side. Where he was tall and mostly made of sharp edges, Sherry barely stood a finger's width taller than Sadja, and came with a deceptive softness. Deceptive, because she was one tough thing that kept her head level even while the world around them burnt.

In their case quite literally.

Some great metal beastie had fallen from the skies at one point, went splat in the streets with its belly coming apart, but even without that, _China_ would have burnt.

That was where she'd washed up; in China, and when Sherry had told her (right before she'd asked her questions about why she was here, where they'd picked her up, _why_ they'd done so) Sadja had thought about a homely den and noodles smacking against her nose. A nice memory, that. A far far away one too, and she missed it now.

Well. China _sucked,_ she'd decided. It was horrid. It reeked. It hurt. And it had monsters. Ridiculously large ones, like the one that was currently trying to rip them apart with a drill the size of yours truly attached to its arm.

The ugly bastard had impeccable timing, had smashed right through a reunion of sorts between Sherry, some pretty haired man named Leon, and a brunette with twitchy fingers on her sidearm and a healthy amount of distrust for everyone and everything.

No, she really didn't like China. And hoped, to Elaya's fickle grace, that Redfield was off better than her.

* * *

 **T** here was no direction to the attack on Waiyip. No particular purpose but to add to the chaos that had already spread the B.S.A.A thin across the globe as it tried to contain the worst of it. And _containment_ was the best they could do; stand fast, stand tall, and get in the way of Neo Umbrella's horrors best as they could while the civilian population was evacuated. After that? Mop up the leftovers and hope for the best.

None of which was his problem, even if he'd spent enough years working on getting real damn good at it. No. Tonight his problem was Ada Wong, who at this point might as well have been a fucking ghost. Fitting. She'd haunted him enough. And now she led him on a chase from one piece of sketchy intel to the next, some of which downright contradicted itself, and he figured he had every right to be tired of it.

Chris rolled his shoulders, leaned his neck left and then right until he felt muscle shift and pop, and willed the exhaustion from his body. The heavy heat wasn't helping, made worse by the Waiyip having caught flame.

And as if to add a little insult to injury, his radio barked: _"Alpha Team, confirm your location."_ Piers perked up in front of him, his back straightening and his right hand flying up to his earpiece. The whole squad paused in their careful advancing into a smoke filled alley between weather whipped concrete blocks for apartment buildings. After a quick nod from Chris, Piers fed their coordinates back through the radio.

 _"Stand by,"_ their handler said, and stand by they did. Every set of eyes was either up or down the alleyway, keeping close eye on the gnarly shadows that tended to spit out J'avo. Or worse. Around them, Waiyip chattered away, talked in pops and cracks of rifle fire and the rumble of explosions.

His neck itched. Chris scratched at it, scraped off sweat and dirt and misery.

_"Alpha Leader—"_

Pier's eyes snapped to him. Chris acknowledged the address with a curt "Yes." and held the apprehensive look Piers was throwing him. It stung a little. To be scrutinized. Judged. To know that Piers was still waiting for him to cock up.

 _But you deserve it,_ he thought. _So... deal._

_"—we've received a priority extraction request from a DSO agent. He claims he knows you. Someone by the name of Leon Kennedy?"_

Chris frowned. "Leon? Yeah, I know him. What's he doing in Waiyip?"

_"Unknown."_

"Great." He gritted his teeth. Relaxed his jaw a second later, and asked: "Why should we waste our time for the DSO? They have their own resources, don't they?"

Pier's eyes narrowed in front of him. _Shit._

 _"Redfield, your squad is closest,"_ the handler continued. _"And he specifically asked for you, said he has someone with him that you're looking for?"_

His frown deepened. His heart thumped out a confused beat. "What? Who?" He moved half a step—

 _"_ Shielding _ring a bell?"_

—froze, and felt a shock of hot ice zipping down his spine. Piers' right eyebrow flicked up.

"Where are they?"

_"Transmitting the coordinates now, but there is no extraction possible from their current location, so you'll need to take them to the second set of coordinates so we can lift them out. Please confirm you've receiv—"_

Piers nodded, and Chris cut in: "Affirmative. We got them." He didn't have time to hear anyone out.

_"—roger. Good luck, HQ out."_

The line cut and he'd already taken the first hurried step, a _Move out!_ Ready in his throat, when Piers stepped into his path and lifted a cautioning hand. The men glanced their way.

"Captain."

"What." _Get. Out. Of. My. Way._ He swallowed.

"They are a good twenty minutes _away_ from Ada Wong's last known position. If we go after them…" He let the words trail off. Didn't need to finish them. Didn't need to tell him that he'd likely lose Ada if he went to chase the mention of a simple name.

An important name.

Chris pinched at the bridge of his nose. Yeah. He'd probably lose his chance, but that didn't mean they had to give up the pursuit. _All that'll take is a little less_ me. _A little more_ we. He jabbed a finger at Piers.

"You're with me. Rose—" A curt nod, and Marco Rose snapped to attention. "—take the rest of the squad and keep going after Wong. We can't afford to lose the trail. Understood?"

"Yes _s_ _ir._ We'll be on her like shit on a boot."

"Exactly what I wanted to hear."

Chris looked to Piers and found approvement staring back at him. It was subtle, but it was there. And the "What are we standing around for? Let's get them, Captain." sounded about as enthusiastic as he'd ever heard Piers be when it came to Sadja.

He nodded. And couldn't beat back the smile that forced his lips up. It was rusty and it felt about as weak and confused as the bubble of hope growing in his gut. But he gladly traded the rabid need for vengeance for whatever the smile might have meant.

* * *

 _**O** ne, two, _ she counted, _three-four-five,_ and watched the flimsy wings of dirty brown moths beating at the air as they danced between a row of coloured lights strung up in front of her. Sadja envied them for their merriment born from ignorance. For being _moths_ , who didn't really need to worry about a bloody thing. She winced with another sharp stab of pain, a coiling— writhing— _shitty_ sensation behind her eyes, driven by the city's dying whispers.

 _Stupid moths._ Being all mothy— Sadja snatched at one, trapped it in the palm of her hand. It fluttered on, ghosted light wings against her skin. The temptation to crush it was there, and when her head flared with another jab that rode down the base of her skull and spread with an agonizing throb through her markings, she almost flattened it out of spite alone.

Words that leaked concern saved the poor thing, and Sadja turned away from the string of lights to look back to the group she'd tripped into.

"Are you sure you'll be fine here?" Leon, the pretty haired one, said, a worried frown pulling his face down a little, and his chin tilting up to glance between Sherry and Jake. "We can spare a few more minutes—"

"We can't," his friend interjected. _Helena_ was her name. "Every minute we wait, Simmons is getting further away. We'll lose him at that rate."

Leon raked a hand through said hair, sighed, and finally regarded Sadja with a sort of look that told her he still didn't know what to make of her. Not like she blamed him. She looked a right mess with her borrowed shoes, the once-upon-a-time white clothes under an equally borrowed jacket, and with that piece of piping clutched in one hand that she'd been clobbering J'avos with since no one wanted to give her a gun. Which was probably a good idea. But she'd been helpful. Had even asked _"Why don't you just_ phone _the BeEssAyAy?"_ after they'd gotten done burying that hulking monster with its drill for an arm under a pile of flaming debris.

That would have been a lot more fun if she'd not been hanging between flaking out from her gates having finally come down after all the pressure from the outside, and her beast doing its best to keep her awake by raking at her with sharp talons on her insides.

They'd all stared at her and she'd said _"What? They're here, no? If you want to get them—"_ She'd jabbed her iron rod at Sherry and Jake. _"—out of here, they're probably your best bet. While you're at it, ask for Redfield, he might like to know I'm here."_

That'd startled pretty-hair. _"Chris? He's here?"_ And it'd done something else too. Had stirred Elaya's hem with a sudden, violent lash of _hate._ She'd glanced to Jake and had thought _Oh boy… what have you done to the lad, Redfield?_ but she'd nodded anyway.

And that had settled things. They'd left the fire behind, ducked back into the dark, steep valleys of the city, and now they were here. Waiting.

"We're going to be fine, Leon." Sherry tapped at his arm. He leaned his head her way. "Go. If what you say about Simmons is true, then we need to get Jake out of here, and the B.S.A.A can help."

Jake scoffed. "Yeah. Right."

Sherry drew in a visible irritated breath, and her voice tilted with a hint of _will you just give me a break._ "They'll know what to do, and I trust Chris." Sadja rather liked the girl. She had a sort of collected attitude that stretched into an almost soothing presence around her.

"Whatever you say, Supergirl." And Jake fiddled with his gun and looked down another filthy alley.

"Okay. But be _careful._ " Leon gave up with a slouch of his shoulders, gave Helena a curt nod, and they were off, leaving Sadja with two people who were supposedly precious cargo and needed to have their rumps pulled from the fire at the earliest.

Except, as things so were when a Shielding was involved, it didn't take more than a minute before the fire crept up on them; gunfire ripped into the walls and shattered windows set low in the buildings. Tore Sadja down to the ground and her two compatriots behind a metal box stuffed full of trash. Bullets pinged off the container. Cast sparks into the night.

 _Ah bloody hell,_ she thought and crawled for some cover.

* * *

 **C** hris picked up the pace, the rifle suddenly heavy in his hands as he hurried ahead of the sound of his boots rapping against the asphalt. A weight he wanted to discard if it meant he'd run faster.

* * *

 **S** he leaned out of the way. The big knife cut at thin air instead of her throat. Whistled past with a glint of light on its sharp edge. Under the white ceramic mask painted in blue and red patterns, the J'avo howled and cackled as he flung himself forward after the failed slash. He moved in jerky, quick bursts. Was hard to predict.

Sadja stepped from his path. Flicked her iron rod in her hands, and whacked it against his spine. He fumbled on his feet. Got his balance back to turn for her, and caught the rod against the side of his head. She had to put all her weight into the swing— and every last bit of her breath too, her lungs spent and aching when he hit the ground with a hard smack. Her throat burnt when she sucked in air. Her right knee decided to turn to a blob of goo, and she fell to bump her shoulder against a wall.

For a few strained beats of her heart, Sadja stayed where she'd fallen. Warmth trickled from her nose. Pooled on her upper lip until she tasted blood against the tip of her lips. She'd caught an elbow on her nose a moment ago. Embarrassing. Downright shameful. Frowning, she rubbed her borrowed jacket over her mouth and nose and winced through the sting of pain.

But she couldn't stay here, couldn't linger on while Sherry and Jake were being herded off into an alley by their attackers. Who, as she noted with growing frustration, wouldn't stop coming, and it wasn't like she could just bail, could she? Scurry up a wall somewhere and take to the roofs and be _done with this._

She sighed. _Why the bloody hell not again?_ Pushed herself off the wall.

Because she had an inkling it'd disappoint Redfield whenever he got here to find them dead. _We don't want that._

Sadja let her iron rod thrum through the air by her side and followed the J'avo. Barked "Oi! Shitheads!" at them with her voice as soar as she felt.

Three snapped around. And flew right at her.

"Ah fuck…"

* * *

 **H** e snapped the rifle up. No time to sight properly. No time to think. His finger twitched against the trigger.

"Piers! Right!"

Four decisive blowbacks knocked into his shoulder. Behind him, the crack of Piers' shots echoed along. Ahead, the J'avo's jerked in the hail of bullets. Three fell. The rest turned to them, their bodies warping under tattered clothes.

 _Here we go—_  He willed his eyes down the sights and tried not to think of the body curled on the ground where the J'avo had gone down.  

* * *

 **S** adja saw it all quite clearly. She'd get skewered. Right here and now. It'd hurt like a bitch, most like, and she'd regret not having run when given the chance. But then the J'avo who'd grabbed her tripped over thin air, and tore her with him when he fell. And the one with the blade that'd been getting ready to stab her, followed them a moment later. The big knife cut at the ground by her ear, a finger's width from cutting it off. The world was all heavy, sweaty scents married with blood and the acrid stink of gunpowder— and dark skies and stupid colourful lights with moths bumbling in circles around them.

Her head snapped back. Quick and hard. Met the concrete with a sharp clack, and for a moment her vision flared white before that faded to give way to a shock of perfect black. A good while long, Sadja knew only the hard ground under her back, which felt like it was all falling away from her as if the world had opened up to eat her. Sounds were muffled. Distant. Her ears rang, fought the whispers off their stage. If she'd not had her arms pinned, she'd have clawed at her head to see if digging in there'd help.

The ringing eventually died, and when the world regained a little reason, she noticed that the gunfire had stopped too. All the angry snarls and the sounds of flesh tearing and bone cracking had gone right with it. And instead, she heard her name. Tentative at first, a careful: "Sadja…?" that barely made it through the stubborn whispers.

Boots tapped her way. Sped up towards the end, and something heavy knocked over the ruined remains of her gates. She groaned, got her blinkers open. Worry hunched above her. He was tucked in grimy gear, had soot on his cheeks, and a glassy sheen of hope in his muddy blue eyes.

"Sadja," Redfield repeated with a little more conviction. Grabbed the corpse that'd dropped on her, and hauled it off her to make room for all the laughter bubbling up her throat.

* * *

 **A** live. She was alive. Had to be— he let the rifle snap against his side as he rushed past Sherry. Registered, just about, how Piers stepped in behind him to stop her and her friend from following him. But he didn't have time for them.

His knees hit the asphalt. His hands came up. Froze mid-motion. _Dead. You were too late you were too fucking late, nono—_

Sadja remained motionless, a still plucked from his nightmares. Broken. Bleeding. His mind shifted to the details, promised him it'd burn the image of her death into his memory. So he could find it every time he closed his eyes.

Her hair had grown out, it told him first. It curled in a matted, dirty mess around her pale face. Much gaunter than he'd remembered, her cheeks sunken and eyes hollow. And she'd added scars. A swath of broken tissue traveled up the side of her neck to climb her chin, and he remembered the thick bandages from the recordings. Burns. Sadja had burnt. She'd burnt and he'd done _nothing._

His lungs squeezed, needed air, but found only thick hurt that choked him where he knelt.  

 _I'm sorry,_ Chris thought.

She blinked. Once, twice, her brows scrunching together, and eventually her eyes were open, unfocused and bloodshot and dull, but _open._

"Sadja," he said, didn't know what else to do but to repeat her name, even if it felt a little unreal. A little desperate. A little like any moment now he'd realise he'd imagined it all, that her eyes were still closed and she lay here dead instead of very much alive and **_laughing_** _._

_What..._

Her chest shook. Her eyes squeezed shut. And in-between fits of laughter, she groaned and coughed and grabbed for him with blood caked fingers.

"I— I— swear," she wheezed. Hooked a hard grip into his harness to tug herself upright, and Chris stared at her. His hand fell to her back. Steadied her. Wanted to latch on tight and pull her into him—

* * *

— **h** is mouth hung open. Not by much, no. Just a little, and Sadja was tempted to lift a finger and push it closed. Though with the giggles wracking her chest and giving her an opportunity to feel every aching bone and cut on her, she stuck to holding on to him and wait out the spell of madness.

"We've really got to stop meeting like this, don't you think?"

He scowled at her words. Scowled a little more. And then he made an effort to kill her, though she figured he meant well. With a hard and fast pull, Redfield wrapped her into a hug that squeezed the air from her lungs. It hurt. It hurt a whole fucking lot, and still she kept giggling, until even the last of the trailing hiccups had themselves muffled against his chest.

"And you," he said up there, his voice rumbling in her ear, "need to stop making me think you're dead."

"Mh," she huffed and took a long drag of air trapped between them.

He squeezed.

"Yessir," Sadja added, and let the world fade to nothing of consequence, with the Furnace burning it away.

  



	45. Penultimate

**PENULTIMATE**

* * *

 

_**N** ow what? _

Piers shot a look out into the cluttered alley. Dingy light. Thick shadows. The stink of trash and blood and a fading scent of sharp gunpowder choking the air. He tapped a finger idly against the stock of his weapon— _tap tap tap—_ and dropped his eyes to Captain Chris Redfield thoroughly ignoring everyone and everything while he hunkered on the ground with Sadja attached to his front. Or him attached to her, whichever way that went. He sighed. Scoffed. Looked back down the alley, and hoped, to dear God, that a J’avo would stick its ugly as fuck face out and open up fire. Or charge them with a machete. Or lob a grenade around a corner.

Or just— _anything,_ really.

Anything that’d give him a good reason to stop standing around awkwardly with his rifle secured and his neck itching under his collar. He coughed, scratched at his neck, and glanced towards Sherry Birkin and Jake Muller. They hung back far enough to carry on a hushed conversation.

It'd been months since he'd seen them last, and as far as he'd known they'd been considered dead ever since Edonia. But here they were, alive and well, and not much had changed. Sherry was still kind of cute, and Muller still an asshole.

“Oh great, it’s the cavalry," the shithead had said after the gunfire had died down, and Piers had bristled and popped the knuckles in his left hand. But before his thoughts had connected between smacking Muller in the chin with his rifle and/or flying at him with a fist, he'd decided to be the bigger man.

Still. _Asshole._ Incredibly important asshole, with his immunity to the virus and all that shit, but that didn't mean he had to _like_ him. Just endure him and make sure he didn't get shot.

 _Speaking of…_  

Piers cleared his throat. “Sir, we need to make the rendezvous.” His eyes flicked to his timepiece. “The evac heli is maybe ten minutes out.”

Chris leaned back on his haunches, Sadja hanging from his neck, and began peeling her off him. She looked like someone had thrown her into a tumble dryer, right along with a pile of trash, turned up the heat, and let her have it. Quite frankly; she looked like shit.

“Can you walk?” Chris kept a steady grip on her arm, as if he was afraid she'd fall over, and his eyes went up and down the length of her looking for any damage he might have overlooked the first five or ten or thirty times.

“Mh. Of course I can. Oh. _Oh._ ” She squirmed. Began tugging on his belt, and Piers’ brow bunched up. “Redfield?”

“What? Sadja— what are you doing—“

She gave the belt a hard yank. Lost her balance, and thumped on her ass, the scarf Chris had taken with him clutched in her fist.

“I think I love you,” she said. "I absolutely do."

Piers smacked the back of his hand against his mouth and bit down an ill timed laugh. Because that look on Chris' face?

Worth the whole damn trip.

* * *

 **R** edfield was doing the shoreling out of water routine again, his mouth a little lost and his soul flapping about all funny. Sadja rather liked it. And she liked the half said words that sat on his lips, and the grip of his hand around her arm. Firm and purposeful. All _Get up, let’s go_ when words wouldn't do.

Least until she stood and her legs decided to have a good wobble. Then the purpose became kind, with an arm looped around her long enough for her to steady herself. All of her, her gates included; those good for nothing piles of rotten wood. But at least she had her _barr,_ and yes, she’d have liked to kiss him for having brought it with him. For that, and for having believed he’d find her. For having come looking.

Though she’d have to thank him later, she figured. Thank him proper. And tell him all about what the Nightingale had shared out of the horribleness of her heart. Not like she knew how to broach the subject, or what to do afterwards. Limp back to Sinvik, maybe, and beg her to fix what she'd broken.

Sadja scoffed, and the arm around her tightened.

"You look terrible," the Furnace said. "Are you sure you're good to walk?"

"Charming. You're _charming,_ Redfield. Go on and get walking, I'll keep up. Promise."

He frowned. And he was right, she probably looked about as ready for this as she felt, that being not a whole lot. She was weak. Exhausted. Almost like she hadn't slept in weeks, and was running on nothing more the fumes of her beast's panting breath. But it'd get better. With the _barr_ back around her neck, her head had cleared, the crippling pain faded to a dull echo at best. The rest she'd cope with. Had to.

"All right." Redfield’s arm bumped against the small of her back. It nudged her just right so she'd face Nivans, who'd stood dutifully off to the side while she had distracted his Captain from captaining things.

The young man was scowling. Sort of. It looked a little halfhearted and skewed, almost like he'd been laughing. Sadja gave him a quiet "Thank you," thinking he'd earned it, along with a smile and a faint nod.

He returned both.

* * *

 **T** he extraction zone was a flat roof atop an office building, and trouble started once they’d popped flares and Piers had taken up position by the roof access door. It began with a question asked between red smoke curling up into the night sky, and a twitch of fingers against the grip of a sidearm ready to draw.

And Piers saw it coming a moment too late.

“Hey, Redfield.” Muller turned on the spot. Slow, his head tilted with a curious kind of intensity. “You knew Wesker? Albert Wesker?”

Piers glanced up and frowned, the shift in Muller's posture clearly hostile, but why? He traded a look with Chris, who gave the faintest of shrugs of _Beats me?_

“I did," he said and peered up at the dirty sky to scan for the heli. "Why?”

“You kill him?”

The temperature might have as well dropped to freezing right then. There was enough ice in Muller's voice to get the job done. And he had Chris' attention now, drew him around to face him with a puzzled frown.

"Yeah."

It happened quick.

At first, the slice of shadow trailing Chris moved cautiously to his side, her fingers flexing like she was groping for a weapon, and a fraction of a second later, Sherry's warning call of "Jake!" came with the snap of a sidearm unholstering.

Muller drew on Chris. A decisive, quick draw that ended with the muzzle pointed at his head. Chris hadn't moved an inch.

"Oh yeah? He was my father. Did you know that? Did you know that he had a son?"

 _For Christ's sake!_ Piers sidestepped with his weapon up and at the ready, looking for a good enough sightline to put the man down. Dread pooled in his stomach, cold and heavy— and Muller's eyes flicked to him. His finger gave a threatening twitch.

Chris raised his left arm, a clear indication for Piers to stop, and his feet scuffed to a reluctant halt. Sadja's did the same after a quick gesture that very much said _down_ , and for a moment the rooftop fell silent.

"Answer me!" Muller's pistol jabbed forward.

"Jake," Sherry pleaded. "Don't do this."

"If what they said is true, I want to _fucking know!_ "

"Captain..." Piers started, his mind tripping over every detail to the situation, every bit of how impossible it was to do any more than _watch._ Even if he got a clean shot, Muller might get his in too. All it'd take was a muscle spasm. _Shit. Shit. Shit._  

"I had no idea." Chris' hand dipped lower, the command clear. And stupid. So stupid. But Piers followed it, let his weapon sink away and felt helpless.

Even if Chris hadn't known, he didn't show surprise. If anything, Piers thought he saw resignation. Maybe a little regret. But not surprise over finding the son of the man who'd almost single handedly ruined his life more than once, right in front of him.

"And I don't know what you've been told. About me, or about him. About what he did and why. All I have to tell you right now is that he left me no choice, I did what I had to."

"Just following orders, huh?"

"No. It was a little more than that. And if you want to shoot me now, go ahead. You have every right to."

" _Redfield—"_ Sadja squirmed.

"But you won't get him." He indicated Piers with a slight tilt of his head. "Or her." His chin dipped to Sadja. "At the end, you'll be just as dead as me, and I don't think that's what you're after. Is it?"

Piers exhaled. Clenched his jaw. Up in the dirty sky, a beam of light danced through the thick smog rising from the burning city. The thwump-thwump of rotor blades approached steadily.

"So put that gun down. Let's get out of here, and I promise I'll answer all your questions once Sherry and you are safe. I owe you that much."

Muller's arm dipped briefly. Snapped back up. Hovered, with his finger still dangerously close to the trigger and only a squeeze away from— Piers didn't want to think about it. Tonight had started to look up. Tonight had looked _promising,_ and now he stood by pretty much with his thumb up his ass while Captain Redfield insisted on standing stock still while death bobbed lazily up and down in front of him.

"Damn right you do," Muller said and clicked his safety on. Timid as it was, the noise didn't let itself be drowned out by the heli's slow dive towards the roof.

* * *

 **W** hen he'd last flopped into his bed, Chris hadn't quite expected to wake up to watch the world run a high fever while he chased after dull hope. And neither had he anticipated to end up staring down the barrel of a gun held by no other than Albert Wesker's _son._

Was he surprised? Yes. Had he seen Wesker in the sharp angles of Jake's face and the hard, pale eyes? Maybe. And had he worried that he'd pull the trigger and finish what his father had started back in 1998? Definitely.

So when Jake lowered the weapon and holstered it with his eyes not once leaving his, Chris breathed in a lungful of shitty Waiyip air, and threw _almost gunned down by Wesker's kid,_ to his pile of near-death experiences. He'd probably have to stick it at the top somewhere.

Piers, of course, recommended they'd disarm him, but when the heli touched down, Chris just shook his head. He didn't see a point to it. Instead, he directed Sherry and Jake to the open cabin doors and let them board. Once they were in, it was their turn, and Chris glanced at Sadja hovering by his right ever since he'd had that pistol pulled on him.

 _Hovering_ was right. That's all she'd been doing, hover and drift and remain oddly quiet ever since he'd found her.

And that was— what? Unexpected too? Not _enough_? Enough of what? He'd found her. She was alive. She was here. But what now? He looked up, at the red smoke driven away by the heli's rotor blades whipping hard gusts of wind across the rooftop. It reminded him of torrents of sand pulled away from under a dead girl in a discarded dream.

Chris swallowed hard, wrapped an arm around her lower back, and herded her forward. She _hrmumph_ quietly, mumbled something about _metal beasties falling from the sky,_ but climbed in without any more protest.

The moment he hauled himself after her, he felt his neck itch with the trailing end of hostily levelled at him from where Jake had sat down. Sherry had a hand on his arm. Desperate or caring, he couldn't tell from here. A B.S.A.A medic buzzed around them, asking questions from under his helmet, and seemingly being ignored on most of them.

"Here. Sit down here—" Piers' voice drew his attention back, and he found him with a hand in close proximity to Sadja's shoulder, gradually directing her to one of the seats close to the cockpit.

And he wasn't trying to kill her. Not yet, anyway.

Smiling faintly, Chris joined them before the peace could break. "I've got her. Check in with the pilot," he told Piers, who shot him a somewhat grateful look and ducked away without another word.

Chris hunkered down, dragged the harness around her to snap it closed. The buckle clicked shut and he tested the straps— again and again— until her hands wrapped around his and stopped their fidgeting.

"Redfield," she said. "I'm okay. You can quit your fussing."

He looked at her, the dirt and blood on her, soaked into the white shirt and caking her pale skin. "I thought you were dead," he stated lamely.

"Mh, me too. Show show much we both know, doesn't it?" Her fingers squeezed.

"I left you there to die. Left you to them. Everything they've done to you…" The words were out before he could think them over, and Chris worked a hand free to catch her cheek in his palm. He tracked it down the curve of her throat, right along the thick and angry scars where she'd been burnt. They continued to her shoulder as he brushed her jacket and shirt aside.

Sadja clicked her tongue. "You did none of that, and don't go thinking any of this is your fault." Her shoulder rolled against his hand. "Those? Give it time and they'll heal. And even if they don't, I look mighty fine in scars, don't you think?"

Chris exhaled, tilted his head up, and found her lips slanted up in a smile that sunk his heart with frightening ease. And he was absolutely fine with that. And without regard for the heli lifting, the ground shifting and tilting, he pulled himself up to her. His nose knocked into hers and his forehead pressed against her brow. She brought a warmth he'd given up on, had thought wouldn't ever come back again for him. And he held on with his fingers curled around the nape of her neck and every breath an aching step closer to something kinder.

"Captain."

 _No, not now,_ he thought at Piers.

"Sir—"

Cold fingers tapped against his collarbone. Pushed. "You've got a job to do," she whispered, and he'd have preferred to tell her that he didn't care. Instead, he begrudgingly released his grip on her and pulled himself to his feet.

When he turned, Piers looked pensive. "We're being asked to take a detour and rendezvous with a strike force headed to an oil rig just off the coast."

Chris frowned. Looked back down to Sadja, who raised her shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. The harness around her and the jacket made her look tiny in her seat.

"They've dug up more on the whereabouts of the group that ran the Waiyip lab, and think that your Vil Marrk relocated to the rig after our raid." Piers looked to Sadja now. Talked to her directly. And _still_ wasn't trying to kill her.

She perked up and her brows knitted.

"There are two squads inbound. We're supposed to be dropped off at the rig and wait for their arrival while these two—" He nodded to Sherry and Jake. "—get lifted back to the mainland." Piers looked back to Chris. "What do I tell them?"

He took a deep breath. Nodded. "Tell them we're on our way."

Because she was right. He had a job to do. And he'd see it through. Chris swung into his seat next to Sadja, the shift of the heli changing course dragging his stomach down with it. He landed a hand on her knee. Squeezed. Yeah. He'd see it through. With her.

"Say, Redfield?"

His eyes cut to her. She was looking towards the back of the cabin. At the medic.

"Those trousers look mighty nice." She tugged on the sodden, dirty linen pants she'd escaped in. They'd been torn on one leg.

Chris scoffed and thought he'd found his answer to the yes or no of whether or not he loved her. And wondered why he'd ever doubted it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bloody hell- I'm torn about this chapter and about the next. I am trying to cram the whole Chris campaign into two chapters, and I fear it comes across as rushing. But I've got to, because Valiant wasn't ever about great gun battles, but about Chris and Sadja being... them.
> 
> I hope my readers don't mind that I'm glossing over the amazing gun play and skill we all know Piers and Chris are capable of.


	46. Haos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the fledgling Keeper grows her wings, and Redfield finds the death of those he loves much worse than the thought of his own.

**HAOS**

* * *

**T** he trousers didn't fit as well as she thought they would, and when Sadja's nicked boots smacked on the wet ground, the bloody things hitched low, chafing at her hipbone with the tightly buckled belt. But they were trousers. Undamaged ones, and they were much thicker than the flimsy nonsense she'd worn before.

 _Progress_.

She pulled them back up. Adjusted the belt. Turned in a circle, just in time to see the bulbous metal beastie _whap-whap-whap_ into the skies, beating at the air with its spinning blades. Sherry and Jake went with it, right along with a bare legged _BeEssAyAy_ man who'd blanched and had spluttered _Excuse me— you want me to do WHAT, Sir?!_ after Redfield had asked him his name and if he'd mind dropping his trousers.

It'd been droll, and she'd have liked to hang on to that moment and not think of the unease squirming at the bottom of her stomach. The sort that drew her eyes all over the place, from Redfield and Nivans exchanging words of professional necessity, and on out over the rippling sheet of black water as far as her eye could see. And that was about all there _was_ to see anyway. A dark ocean, an equally dark sky, and a wide platform between the two. In the middle of the structure hunkered a building, squat and nondescript. Two metal beasties stood off to the side, their blades stock still. If Vil Marrk was hiding here, he must have gotten real desperate.

She tugged her _barr_ free, let a salty breeze nip at her neck, and stretched tentatively under Elaya's hem. A flutter of silence greeted her. Gone was the chaos they'd left behind on the mainland. She sighed, relieved, and took a sniff around in search of Vil Marrk or his lakeys. For a while, she felt nothing, until a faint skitter, like claws clacking on glass, drew her attention. Sadja bristled. It tasted awful, of metal dipped in rancid oils.

Her chin thumped to her chest and she looked to the tips of her shoes. Blinked at the wet concrete and at what she couldn't see past it, but was quite certain had to be there.

"Huh." Her soles scuffed the ground. "Redfield?"

A pair of footsteps tapped close.

"Vil Marrk can't be down there, can he?" She looked up, at both Redfield and Nivans contemplating her a bit like she'd said something silly. Especially Nivans.

"Really?" she asked. "Are you certain? There's obviously something down there, but unless he's grown gills…?"

Redfield's eyes cut from her to the squat building. "No, no gills. There's a structure under the surface. We'll ride the access elevator—"

"She can _feel_ them?" Nivans cutting in earned him a scrunched set of Redfield-brows.

"Yeah, she can."

"That's—" Nivans paused. Considered her briefly. "That's actually pretty cool."

Sadja willed a smile and dipped her head in a faint bow. "Why, thank you." Right before her features pulled down and she threw Redfield a pleading look. " _Elevator?_ Down _there?_ I'd rather not."

She thought of all that water all around her, of how it'd be to her left and her right and _above_ her, and her knees snapped together.  _Elaya have mercy, this has got to be a joke._

"No other way down," he told her matter of fact. "You can stay up here—"

"No. No, of course I am not staying up here, don't be silly. But if I drown, I'm blaming you."

"Fair," he said with a smirk.

Though the lovely tilt of his lips didn't stick on very long. Voices bubbled from their earphones. Told them the world was ending, and that there wasn't going to be any help coming. They'd be on their own, they said. 

_Poppycock._

* * *

 **S** adja followed them into the box, a single step faltering as she hesitated to cross the threshold. _I don't like this. I don't like this one bit,_ she thought, her foot sort of hovering over a dark gap that went Elaya knew where.

 _ < Down, > _the beast supplied unnecessarily, and then shrunk against the bottom of her stomach when Redfield threw her a hard look.

 _Get in,_ it said, and in she went.

Nivans gave a panel at the side a tap. The doors slammed shut. Their rattle reminded her of a wicked monster's hollow laughter after it'd swallowed them, and she hoped it'd at least choke on them.

The box moved and plunged them into the black sea. At first, all she saw was metal slowly inching by, until the plates made way for glass and murky darkness pressing in close. There were lights mounted to the box as it moved, but they didn't reach far. Sadja didn't know if she should have been grateful or terrified over not knowing what lay out there.

She stepped closer to the glass. Peered down. More lights. Beads of them, trailing a tower going _down,_ rather than up, and that was a concept she was familiar with. Though as far as she knew none of the _towers_ back home had been built into the ocean. They all just burrowed into the earth where they hid secrets of old and beckoned with death for anyone who might come looking. And there was clearly more down there than just the shaft the elevator followed, with big bulbs made of metal and glass barely visible past all that water.

She tilted her neck back and stared woefully at the box's roof.

Up there, back across the ocean, something terrible had happened. It'd chilled the Furnace. Snap froze him. And it'd even dulled the sharp edges that Nivans came made of.

For one, Ada Wong was apparently dead. Killed by her own people, if what the voice on the radio had said was true. But with her death, she'd brought that of countless more— a barrage of undoing headed out to spread the horrors cooked up in her name.

Sadja didn't quite understand. She found the concept of something being capable of killing hundreds of thousands at the same time with little to no effort… baffling. Even the whole of Trero's Reapers would find that quite the challenging task.

But she didn't want to ask. And didn't want to make Redfield explain why he allowed himself to think that it was somehow his fault. As if that stubborn man carried every single thing wrong with the world on his big shoulders and couldn't very well believe himself anything else but responsible.

* * *

 **W** hen the elevator doors opened, Chris packed all thought of missiles streaking through the skies away. Instead, he focused himself down the narrow sights of his rifle. Away from _You could have made a difference. You could have done something. If you hadn't gone after Sadja, maybe—_

Maybe.

More than once he'd looked at her with her hands pressed to the glass panes and eyes wide with wonder and dread. Her reflection against the backdrop of the ocean was ghastly. Faded.

 _You were following orders,_ he'd argued. _And who are you kidding? You would have done it either way._

Chris had turned to Piers too and he'd wanted to tell him how he should have been _there,_ but as if he'd read his mind, Piers had shook his head.

But now that the doors were open, none of that was allowed to matter. Piers mirrored him as he moved into the dimly lit corridor waiting for them. Shoulder to shoulder. Just about enough room between them so they wouldn't get into each other's way. The corridor was wide. Tall. And empty.

"Clear."

"Clear," Piers echoed.

And from behind them, Sadja mumbled: "I could have told you that."

They turned to face her, and she took a shuffling step back with her hands raised in front of her and her head cocked back. "Sorry."

* * *

 **T** hat'd tickled the Furnace, and Sadja had to bite down on an ill timed smirk before she got herself sent back into the box. But it also reassured him, and with a careful nod her way, he acknowledged that she was as much part of this as Nivans was. Even if finding room between them was a bit of a challenge, with her sitting just a key off tone to their carefully synchronised notes.

They went left, for no other reason than a gut feeling on her end, and Redfield and Nivans kept themselves to the front. Step by quiet step. Rifles up and needle sharp focus. It felt all a little familiar to the underground trip in Italy, though she hoped at least they'd get a different ending. Maybe that they'd find Vil Marrk. Stop him even. Make things a little right before they could get any worse, because far as she was concerned, all they'd been doing so far was play catch up.

But then again she was a Shielding, so bugger that, no?

* * *

 **S** he led them through warped and round corridors, and Chris wondered who'd had the brilliant idea to skimp on the steel plating and slot in glass panes instead. The same guy who'd decided to make half the place look eerily like it'd been made to resemble a beehive, probably. The walls and domed ceilings were reinforced by metal welded in a honeycomb pattern, and like any self respecting beehive, it started swarming once you started prodding at it.

Not long into their advance, Sadja warned them with a curt "Up ahead—" and he snapped his rifle up to send two rounds down the corridor. He didn't pause to aim. Or to size up the target. _The hell? Sloppy, Redfield. Sloppy—_

The shots connected. Two distinct hard smacks of bullets slamming home. The hostile dropped. It was human, or at least human shaped, and wore a black full body armoured suit. The suit made it look insectoid, almost, ending in an elongated helmet. It came armed too. Much like the rest of them piling around the corner.

Piers whistled through his teeth, added "Nice." with a glance at Chris and her, before he turned his focus down the pack coming for them.

 _Yeah. Nice._ Chris shifted against the wall, snatched a fold of cloth on Sadja, and tucked her in behind him.

And hoped she'd fucking stay there until they were done.

* * *

 **O** nly when the last of the thing with their pointy, black helmets and gnarly armour had dropped dead, did Redfield stop being an arse and shove her back all the bloody while. Which she had a lot to say about, most of which wasn't about to be kind. But a disembodied voice travelling through the corridors snared her throat shut and froze her feet midstep.

The voice rode the trailing echo of gunfire, and the gentle pops and groan of the structure standing against the ocean pressing down on them. And it hated her.

"I don't know what I expected. That you'd died in the attack, or that the Nightingale would kill you if I couldn't," Vil Marrk said from everywhere at once. "But not that you'd come here of all places."

Redfield glanced at her. "Is that…?"

She nodded. Clenched her jaw, and he moved to her. Next to her, as if he had to ward her from thin air alone.

"What are you trying to do? Stop me? It's too late for that now. Can't you tell?" His voice changed, turned a little distant as he addressed whoever he was with. "Start it up."

A sudden shift in the air popped her ears. Sent a jolt of electricity down her spine that fanned out across her markings and slammed into the pit of her stomach. The ground shook. Metal groaned. Next to her, Redfield caught his footing in a wide stance, and Nivans tumbled with his shoulder bumping into a wall.

"Come on, _Keeper,_ " Vil Marrk taunted. "Watch your world burn."

* * *

" **T** his is bad," she said. "This is very bad."

Sadja shoved past him, and Chris caught her by the elbow in time for another shudder to run the length of the underground facility. This one almost knocked him off his feet, and her tearing forward wasn't helping.

"Captain?" Piers looked up and down the corridor. "Maybe we should get out of here…?"

"No." Sadja tried to yank herself free. He held on tighter. "I can't let him do this."

"Do what? Sadja, what's he—"

With one hard tug, because he'd forgotten how strong she was, she shook his grip off and bolted down the corridor.

"Sadja! Come ba— ah, _shit_. Piers, get topside." _You don't need to drown down here with us._

"With all due respect, Sir: No. You want to go after her, then we both go."

* * *

 **H** e couldn't. He shouldn't be _able to._ The ground bucked again as Sadja flung herself around a corner, every step bringing her closer to the ache that pulled through her veins.

"I know what you're thinking," Vil Marrk chided her from all around her. "How? How can I possibly managed to break apart your precious lock."

Up ahead, a door opened, and she almost made it there before the next tremor swept her feet out from under her. She landed on her elbows and knees. Elaya's hem screamed around her. Begged. Bled. And wailed with how it was torn apart.

"It's laughably easy, really." He chuckled. The sound made bile rise in her throat. "There's an excess of energy to tap into here, and no Reapers to stop me from building one of their old gates. It took time, yes. _Years,_ even. But I'm ready now. And look who the Cataract sent to stop me? You. **You.** I almost think it's trying to do me a favour."

"Oh shut up," she wheezed, gathered her feet under her, and with a few staggering steps made it past the door leading her into a wide open space plunging downwards into the depths.

Redfield and Nivans caught up with her right as she fumbled to a halt at the edge a platform that ringed the massive, circular shaft. Down below, a sharp crack whipped at the air, sounding much like the clap of thunder that'd been trapped under the ocean and was mightily offended by the fact. The world shuddered again. Her teeth clicked together. And her blood sung with the call of _home._

* * *

 **C** hris grabbed her before she could fall off the edge, set a firm grip around her arm and pulled her back. _What are you doing?_ sat at the tip of his tongue, but trailed off at a startled "What…"

Right in front of them, suspended by heavy machinery clamping to its surface, hung the biggest C-virus chrysalid he'd ever seen— and it was hatching. The bottom half bulged, with cracks forming where whatever was in there began pushing out. It was massive. Easily four or even five stories high.

"It took some convincing, believe me," Vil Marrk continued from the speakers. Much like with Sadja, Chris couldn't place his accent, though if he'd had to compare it to anything, he'd have gone for a hint of French. "She wanted to release it here, but that'd have been such a waste _._ Do you want to know what she called it? _Haos._ Fitting. It means chaos in one of their languages, and that's exactly what it will bring."

"He's sending it home," Sadja whined next to him. "He's—" She jabbed past the writhing, bulging chrysalid, down to the bottom of the shaft. "Sending it straight _home._ I can't let him do that."

Chris tracked her motion, and what he'd at first had thought to be water collected at the bottom, was anything but. Filling the space below the hatching Haos, was a disk of dirty, gray light laced with shreds of muddy green. It rippled like water might, the surface shifting and churning with ever changing currents. But water didn't shed dust. Or— his mind tried to catch up. To quantify what he was seeing. Not dust. Clouds. As if he'd climbed to the tip of a mountain and was looking down at a cloud covered valley that mistook itself for an ocean. But even that fell short, and he kept scrambling for a reference point to what it was seeing. To make sense out of it that stretched beyond _Sadja._

He thought of galaxies. Of deep space images of nebulae. And of the dusting of colour on Sadja's back, which eerily resembled the particles of dust separating from the clouds to dance freely through the air.  

"What the shit," Piers stated, his rifle somewhat halfheartedly pointed at the Haos. _CRACK._ Something ripped from the bottom. Chunks of its cocoon began falling off. Disappeared into the nebula and not-water.

Chris glanced at Sadja. "Can we destroy it?"

She shook her head. "No— I— I don't know. I don't think so. He shouldn't be able to do this to begin with, and I wouldn't know where to start on stopping it."

"Then we kill the thing."

"Uhm, Sir— how big do you think the _thing_ is? And the moment it breaks free it'll fall right in. Through. At. Ah— whichever. Jesus. Sir, we're getting more company. Movement three o'clock."

His eyes cut across the shaft. A platform moved down along the sides. He didn't like the look of what it carried. More armoured hostiles. They opened fire, but they were too far to take any more than irregular potshots. For now.  

* * *

" **D** o you want to know what's on the other side? Where I've pointed it?"

Sadja turned her eyes up, figured Vil Marrk was up there somewhere, looking down at her and seeing himself the victor with her helpless at his feet.

_Accurate._

Her jaw clenched. Her fingers pumped into useless fists.

Below, the Cataract tried to shift, to close. Its silver surface shivered, streaks of violent purple bursting through it like veins filled with tainted blood. But it wasn't allowed its wish. With a sharp clap of lightning, and the stench of burning air, the ring of equipment that held the world open against its will sparked and groaned and sent another rumble through the structure.

"Carran," Vil Marrk finally said. "Your Gated City."

The rumble shook fragile dust upwards. It carried on invisible winds, until the first shy tendrils found her feet. The call of _home_ sung louder with the touch. Sung of loss. Sung of unmeasurable death.

She swallowed. Carran counted hundreds of thousands of lives. And if that thing, that _Haos_ , fell into the bowels of the city? Where the masses lived? They'd not know it was even there, and by the time anyone could think of mounting a defense, it'd be too late. And how _would_ they defend against it? What'd they do when their very own turned against them, as she'd seen it happen here?

"If we're going to do something, we need to do it _now,"_ Redfield urged.

The tip of the suspended cocoon popped off with a noise of hundreds of bones breaking, and tumbled into the torn open Cataract. It didn't _want_ to let it through. It didn't _want_ to sit here, exposed and powerless. It barely ever even bothered to listen to a Keeper, so why should it let itself be—

Sadja snatched at Redfield's arm. A wisp of dust, born from the ashes of worlds lost and yet to be, danced against the tips of her fingers. They carried a singular emotion: _yearning._

"Do you trust me?" she asked him. He stared at her. His brows pinched.

"Yeah. Of course, but what—"

She towed him closer to the edge.

"Sadja?"

"I need you to trust me now. I need you to jump."

With her mind turned to jagged fields, Hell cackling down at her with its wide, red teeth, and to feather tipped wings darkening the skies, she leapt. And broken lock or not, the key the Cataract whispered still fit.

_Home._

* * *

 **T** he loudspeakers spat _"No!"_ at them. The mockery and calm gone from Vil Marrk's voice and replaced by something frantic and desperate. "Shut it down! Shutitdown!"

Lights died below Chris, the contraption that circled the not-water flickering out.

The same _not-water_ Sadja had just vanished into. "Why is it not turning off! **Do something!** "

 _I need you to jump,_ she'd said before she'd vaulted off the ledge to dive for the sheet of living, breathing gray.

"Uhm, Captain?"

_Jump. I need you to jump._

"Okay," Chris said.

"Sir?"

"You heard her." He looked to Piers, who was frantically turning his head between him and the approaching group of hostiles.

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

And he'd have probably changed his mind if he'd waited any longer, but with the chrysalid falling apart and the Haos in there squirming out, its thick fingers stretching for air, he couldn't afford to. Chris pushed off. He crossed his arms in front of him. Tucked his legs together. And he expected to feel the impact of water against his heels as he went in, because as it rushed up to him, he realised it really did look like the seah's roaming surface. Like a tumbling wave seen from the ocean floor, its current dragging him up.

And in.

* * *

 **T** he familiar dream rushed by him. Sand pulled away, fell into the skies teeming with colour and with life, where stars died and were born anew. He'd forgotten his name. Or maybe he'd forgotten how to be. But it didn't matter. His heart stopped beating. Granted him peace. A way out.

Somehow, Chris had always thought he'd be more afraid of dying.

* * *

" **G** et up. Redfield. Open your eyes— _get up!_ "

His heart was beating again. _That's good,_ Chris thought and blinked to find the voice hovering somewhere above him. She was close. Close enough to touch. And he tried to, though when he reached out to dig his fingers into the collar of her shirt, Sadja misunderstood the intent.

"What, you need help?" She grabbed him by the arm. Pulled. "Who'd have thought you'd be such a baby, Redfield. A heavy baby."

He grunted. Tried his best to get his feet under him, and realised he couldn't really tell apart what was up and what was down. There was a rumble somewhere near. A wheezing growl and the wet smack of meat.

"Ah— you might want to move a little faster," she urged, and Chris realised she looked… different? There was still blood on her. And dirt. Much more dirt, actually. But underneath it, the ashen skin had turned to an almost rosey complexion. And her eyes practically shone with something vibrant and frantic, with life.

Behind her, a slice of blue sky was wedged between dark walls of jagged rock. _Ravine,_ his brain informed him. Deep enough to keep the light at a good distance. He looked to the side. Sandy ground. Shrubs. Everything smelled earthy and muddy and _not_ like an underwater research facility.

He blinked. _Okay. What. No. This isn't right._

"Help me, Nivans." Sadja hissed, and then there was a second set of arms on him and pulling him to his feet. His eyes cut to Piers— then right past him to a hill bulging between the rock walls. The hill moved. Unfolded a set of arms. The hands attached to them were easily as big as him, and they were dragging at the ground, pulling to them. Gaining ground. Haos looked human. At least up to the front, with a bleached, human skull covered in translucent, slimy skin. Glassy eyes stared at him from lidless sockets. And they hated him.

Clarity came quickly after that, or at least something passing for it.

So Haos had hatched. Okay. And now it was coming for him. For them. Chris fumbled for his weapon, even as he wondered what good that'd do.

So when Piers said "We gotta bail, Captain," he decided he'd go with that suggestion, at least for now.  

Sadja ran on ahead and they followed until they hit a rock wall. She moved up along it, and he threw a look over his shoulder at Haos pulling close. Him and Piers opened up on it, but it just kept coming. Didn't even flinch. Their shots echoed hard through the ravine, bounced up to the skies.

"Through here," she said and vanished into a gap in the rock. Piers and him made it through just as thick fingers slammed into it after them. They groped uselessly at thin air and Haos bellowed after them with an almost mournful screech. Dust and rocks were knocked off the surfaces around them as it threw itself forward.

"We have to go up." Sadja started up an incline in the tunnel, rushed through thick shadows barely broken by light lancing in through holes in the walls. He clicked on his flashlight.  

The cone illuminated crumpled steps leading up. They were worn down by time, more so than use, he figured. Same as the tunnel walls worked into the rock and the windows and balconies that he'd previously thought to be natural holes.

And Haos used them to climb. It hauled itself after them. Dug fingers through the rock wherever it thought it could grab them. Twice it almost slammed Sadja into a wall and Piers and him riddled the meaty, slimy hand with bullets until it retracted it— only to come back for more soon after.

But Sadja kept going, and by the time they reached the top, his lungs burnt and his head spun. The latter he credited to the _Where am I?_ looping over and over again between him trying not to get grabbed and thrown back into the ravine, or crushed against a wall.

Because he'd never fully believed her, even if he'd tried to make himself think he had. There'd always been some doubt left. Until now.

The passage ended in a hole in the ground. A decayed wooden staircase covered by bushes, small trees and a thick layer of moss, lay crumpled under his feet. Sadja didn't slow. She scaled the vertical wall with an ease that gave him pause, as if she _hadn't_ just spent weeks incapacitated, and as if the air itself carried her to the top. Chris helped Piers over the edge with his hands for a ladder, and then followed by scrambling up far as he could before they hauled him up the rest of the way.

For a moment there he'd thought they'd make it. He registered a flat plateau. Long, thick grass wove in a breeze. A forest encroached on the area, maybe thirty feet away. The trees were tall, with thick trunks and dark, dense foliage. He couldn't place their names.

_Of course._

And just as Sadja started for the treeline, a pale hand slapped the ground next to them. Swiped at their feet. They staggered from its path, Sadja darting off to the right, and Piers retreating with his weapon raised. A burst of shots smacked into Haos' leering face.

That only pissed it off.

Wailing, it launched itself forward, surprisingly agile for its wide, legless mass and caught Piers around the midriff. The fingers clamped shut. Squeezed.

"Piers!" Chris thought he heard bone crack. He opened up on it, every crack of the rifle bounding off the platou. It didn't drop him. Instead, it swung the fist with Piers still clutched in it at Chris.

Too fast.

It slammed into him. Sent him flying. He hit the ground. Pain flashed in his shoulder, rang his head as his head snapped sideways. The world turned to a blur of green, then blue, then green—and red on green and red on red—until he stopped tumbling and lay still. Chris drew in a few lungfuls of air (sweet, clean, _too_ clean) and gaped at the skies. They grinned back at him. Bared a jagged, red toothed grin hunkering low on the horizon.

 _Moon?_ his brain asked. _Moon,_ it agreed. It was a bit too large though, covered a quarter of the sky. And it was a rusty red colour, not white or gray or whatever the hell his moon was supposed to be. And it was broken. A junk of it was missing, the remains resembling the halfway torn off jaw of a red fanged monster.

_You can take a closer look later._

Chris pushed himself to his knees. Scanned left. Right. Piers lay in the grass off to his right. His arm looked wrong, but he was moving, an awkward scoot backwards on his ass.

_Get to him._

—preferably before Haos did. The ground shook with the impact of its body launching itself forward again.

"Shit. _Piers!_ " Chris bolted forward and grabbed for his rifle. _Gone._ His weapon was gone. He ran harder, steadied himself as he almost fell once, and still he wouldn't make it in time.

Haos reached Piers first.

_CRACK-CRACK_

Two shots clapped at the air. Quick and pointless. Haos barely flinched, but its head turned anyway, the bulging eyes drawn to Sadja. She stood holding his rifle, and Chris wasted a moment thinking her stance was _almost_ perfect.

With a screech, Haos went for her instead, its body flattening grass and shrubs as it plowed forward. It'd be on her any second now.

"Move!" he shouted. "God fucking damnit, move!"

She didn't. Sadja dropped the rifle, turned her eyes to the sky, smiling. A small, lopsided smile. And Chris remembered why he'd not feared his own death when he'd thought his heart had stopped.

He'd always feared the death of those he loved a great deal more.

* * *

_**H** ome. _

When Sadja had sworn herself to Sinvik, she'd offered her life to Trero just as much. And she'd bled for it. She'd fought for it. So when she needed it to listen, when she needed it to send its Reapers to help one of their Keepers, then why shouldn't it listen? At least once in a while. Maybe even today.

Sadja hadn't known if it'd all work out— all her careful planning that'd taken her exactly two heartbeats to commit to. Not until now, when home came hurtling from the skies and crashing through the forest behind her.

Because _home_ wouldn't leave itself be tainted by some other world's horrors. Not without a bloody good fight.

* * *

 **W** ide spread feathered wings beat at the air above Chris. They flung forward, billowed out in screaming colours, and the dragon swept down at Haos with sharp tipped talons digging in deep.

_Dragon._

Chris reached Piers. Slid to the ground by his side and got an arm under him to pull him back. "Sir. That's a dragon, Sir."

"I see it—"

"A fucking dragon."

It looked a great deal like the ones on Sadja's drawings; thick necked, with a lithe, v-shaped frame, and a bony spine that twisted as it latched on to Haos and tore at it with its maw biting down hard. It wasn't near as big as the BOW, maybe half its size, but it wouldn't let itself be shaken off. And there were two of them. The second one sprung from the forest behind Sadja, unfurled its wings and leapt over her with an alien, metallic howl that made his ears thrum.  

At the end, it was an uneven fight, and over quickly. Haos tried to fend them off, even managed to turn the first dragon on its back and gets its hands around its neck, only to be ripped away by the second one beating its wings and lifting it three meters into the air.

The battle moved back and forth across the plateau, forced Chris to drag Piers further and further away if they didn't want to get flattened by a tail, or sliced at by a wing. By the time Haos finally fell and stopped moving under the weight of the dragons, they'd retreated to the tree line, the shade of the forest chilling the air where he stood.

"Its looking at us," Piers supplied, and he was right. One of them had its neck craned towards them. Its head tilted, the jaws opening slightly to bare purple teeth dripping oily, translucent blood.

"It's… it's… oh shit, Captain."

Chris swallowed and felt very small. Not because of its size, even if it was damn big. But because he was of no significance in front of him. As if he didn't matter. Hadn't ever mattered. And would soon cease to anyway. The dragon's feathers puffed up. Reflected the sun in hues of blue and green and red. Its wings gave a threatening flap. And then, with the warning done with, it went straight for him with two long leaps that shook the trees behind him.

Suddenly _shot by Wesker's son,_ didn't feel all that novel any more, but before it reached him and could clamp its teeth shut on his head, Sadja slid into its path. She held one hand extended in a placating gesture, and the other curled into a tight fist.

The dragon dug its claws in, tore up earth and grass, and faced her as she shouted at it in the same gibberish language that'd driven the B.S.A.A. techs into a curious frenzy. Her voice cracked. Strained. And for a moment he thought the dragon would eat her. After that, it'd have him and Piers for seconds.

But the dragon settled, its bony shoulders giving an upwards shrug, and huffed at her. It was a throaty sound that reverberated up its neck and puffed out like a furnace blowing a gust of hot air. Chris felt Piers squeeze his arm, and a quick glance down showed him staring wide eyed at the one sided confrontation not even two meters away from them.

Eventually, the dragon took a step back. It inclined its head, as if to nod at the small, insignificant person in her ill-matched set of clothes, and returned to its friend. They latched onto Haos, and with their wings beating hard enough to kick up dust to sting at his eyes, they lifted the dead BOW into the skies.

Chris exhaled. Sat back on his ass, with Piers slumping into his side with a pained grunt. His arm was broken. A bad break, if the twist at the elbow was any indication. But he was alive. They were alive. All three of them. And they were—

He looked to Sadja as she walked to them. At how her hands shook. How her chest rose quick and hectic. Splotches of red bloomed on her neck and cheeks. Exhaustion dragged her down. Sent her shivering. Buckling. She hit the grass in front of him knees first.

"I think I'm about to faint, Redfield," she said and then she did.

Chris caught her against his chest as she dipped forward, her forehead bumping on his collarbone. She was warm. Hot. He set a hand against her neck, felt her pulse beating frantically under the soft pressure of his fingers, and the heat of a fever burning her up.

He hugged her close. Sighed into her matted, sweat soaked hair. And listened to an alien world mumble around him, its winds whistling through trees that he didn't know the name of.

"Uhm, Chris?"

He glanced right, at Piers staring at the sky with its big red moon thing. _Hell,_ he remembered. That's what she'd called it. It fit.

"Yeah?"

"This is kind of cool. But what now?"

Chris scoffed. He stretched out his legs to cradle Sadja in his lap, and looked out across the a landscape of rolling hills and craggy peaks. They went on far past the horizon.

"Beats me." He dipped his chin down. No, he had no idea what they'd do now. Except wait. And with her slow, even breathing, Chris had all the reassurance he needed that they'd be okay.


	47. -where the heart is.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue.

**-WHERE THE HEART IS.**

* * *

>  ❛ **Day 1**
> 
> Sinvik heard me from half across the Belt.
> 
> Because I'm _crude,_ she says. Crude and brash and with none of a Keeper's finesse. She was crying when she said that. Crying and clinging on to me as if she'd thought me dead.
> 
> Ha.
> 
> Suppose she had. Suppose she'd given up on me. Suppose she'd had no reason to think otherwise. Right until that moment when she'd chased across the Southern plains to find me. To welcome me home. _**Home**.  ❜_

The pen paused, its tip kissing the paper with a touch of black ink. It was sturdy paper, made from Trero's thick trunked trees and not nearly grained as finely as the borrowed pages she'd left behind in another life.

>  ❛ Home, she repeated, is complicated. _Home_ is hardly as straightforward as a settled in bed or the taste of familiar air. Home, that has ❜

**A** muted, gentle clack from her left gave her pause. She sniffed. Flicked the pen in her fingers and let its blunt end tap on the paper. _Tap-tap-tap_ and _THUMP_ the seat by her side complained. Sadja looked up, caught a plastic bag fly across the dash of the metal beastie and slide to a stop in front of her.

Her head cocked left. Redfield pulled the door closed behind him. Dumped something in the back, turned back around to turn the key, and with a throaty growl, the beastie came alive around her.

"Aren't you going to open it?"

Sadja frowned, glanced to the pitiful page she'd barely had time to make a dent into, and then at the bag in front of her. The beastie rumbled forward, its red nose catching the gleam of a high sun. She snapped the journal shut and pulled the bag onto her lap.

"Where we going, Chris?" Bits of colourful cloth fell out when she turned it around. Greens and reds and bits of orange here and there, with pretty, joyful pattenrs. Not a lot of cloth though, mind you. And it had strings on it. _What is that supposed to be?_ She looked at him. Arched a brow.

Redfield lifted his right arm, reached across to her, and lifted one of the pieces of fabric to dangle it from a hooked finger. Now they looked somewhat familiar. 

"You bought me underpants," she said and sighed. "Congratulations. I mean, they look— uh— nice, I suppose? A bit impractical though, don't you think?"

He snorted, gave his wrist a quick twist, and smacked the cloth against her nose.

"It's a bikini," the happily flaring Furnace educated her before he stuffed it back into her lap. His hand came up to settle around her neck. Gave it a squeeze that flirted with the idea of holding on, even if he might need that hand to drive.

He carried a smile when she turned to look at him. A smile without consequence. A smile with all its jagged edges gone.

"You'll need it at the beach."

 

And maybe _home_ wasn't that complicated after all, but came stitched together from the moments between now and then. Between the work yet unfinished.

Work best not done alone.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thank you.**  
>  A Valiant Remedy was originally started at the beginning of 2015. It was important back then, maybe more so than it is now. It helped me come to grips with things. And it gave me a chance to show my appreciation for Chris Redfield and what his character has helped me endure.
> 
> So here it is.
> 
> Finished.
> 
> I'm a little stunned right now. A little sad. 
> 
> And I know I could should have probably spent more time on the last part, especially China and Haos— and I'll want to redo it, but for now? For now this is it. It has served its purpose at any rate, and I have learned so much about Trero and the world I'd built, and found myself reconsidering a lot of the magic system as Valiant matured. There is still a lot of work to do, of course. Always is.
> 
> And now for the important bits:
> 
>   **Thank you.**
> 
> Thank you, my guest user reviewers **Natasha** and **Herp Derp** , and whatever other names you went by. You two were beautiful from start to finish. Valiant didn't have a lot of readers, but you made posting day worth it every single day. And thank you, **MissSquishy1565** , for that one comment out of the blue that really made me smile.
> 
> And of course thank you **Deejay** for believing in me. I love you.
> 
> Okay. I'm very sad now.
> 
> So have some music while I go off and wonder what'll be next. Maybe I'll see you all there. And if I don't, I just wish you all the best and that you will find all the wonderful fics that you can ever dream of.
> 
> [A Shielding Thing / a Valiant Remedy](https://open.spotify.com/user/anahya/playlist/5vFEOBChPGWpYkgsw5XSdb)
> 
> [Chris Redfield](https://open.spotify.com/user/anahya/playlist/2TbdTjD2BwiAQGAC7D1NAN)
> 
> [Sadja Shielding](https://open.spotify.com/user/anahya/playlist/7BxVKQm0opzf2vkVNHMCGw)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Piers and Emma continuation thingies!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7781629) by [Claireton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claireton/pseuds/Claireton)




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